


The Night Comes Down

by ValentineSebastian



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Deacury, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Slow Burn but not Agonizingly Slow, Smoking, Some details are changed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-06-02 03:57:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValentineSebastian/pseuds/ValentineSebastian
Summary: A (deacury) love story that begins with a little angst ♥Takes place at Ridge farm.





	1. Chapter 1

The singer sits motionless at the mistreated piano in the rather large guest room. It’s a miracle the damn thing is still in tune, though the high E key makes a nasty “thunk” when struck. Awful. He rubs his temple in frustration with closed eyes, elbow resting irreverently upon the keys.

It’s dead quiet and his mind wanders while he attempts to massage away his headache. The peeling wallpaper offends his eyes. Normally yellow excites him but they’ve mixed brown, _and_ plaid into the design somehow. They’ve managed to make even yellow appalling. _Disgusting._ The sconces by the window are quite pretty though. White metal with _fleur de lis_ accents and glass panes, quite tall and regal looking. Red cinnamon scented candles sit atop them. That too offends Freddie’s eyes (and nose). The floor length white lace curtains aren’t _too_ terrible but they’re dusty as all get out.

Freddie is frustrated. Exhausted too, mentally at least, and absolutely _everything_ is annoying him it seems. On most days his fingers skirt across the ivories effortlessly, a simple thing. Laughable in terms of effort, the music just _comes_ to him. 

But not today. The feeling he's trying to evoke eludes him, he can't quite articulate. 

A dramatic sigh (dramatic, even for him) escapes his raked lips. In deep concentration he can't help but nibble them persistently, mindlessly wetting and pulling his bottom lip through scarcely opened teeth.

He abruptly hammers his elegant palms down onto the keys, simultaneously straightening his back. A deep chorus rises from the steel wires within. Freddie hurls a quiet curse to the skies with closed eyes. _Or maybe it was a prayer?_ He was undecided. Yes, everything must be perfect even in his completely imagined narrative.

His invisible audience remains perpetually, woefully silent. Everything with Freddie is a performance, it has to be. He sucks in a deep breath and dashes his right hand all the way to the highest of notes (purposely skipping that rotten E) and trilling them at the tail end, mirroring his frustration.

"Fuck!" he sharply exhales, standing up abruptly. He vigorously shakes his hands out in annoyance. The plastic hairbrush slips unceremoniously to the floor, he'd forgotten it was on his lap. He retrieves it and begins pulling ornery black locks through the slim bristled wand. 

Before he knows it he's lost in thought again.

Freddie’s time at Ridge Farm had been comfortable and plenty fruitful in the week they’d been there, but he couldn't get this damned melody sorted out of his head and onto his keys … or at least, it wasn't coming to him as perfectly as it "felt" in his mind. 

Lyrics weren't the issue this time. Usually lyrics were the finicky bitch that held him hostage, he wasn't used to this kind of musical _oppression._ He frowns, sighing with an air of defeat. Maybe Brian could help him with this one, he makes a mental note to ask the guitarist next time they practice.

Ah, well, _c’est la vie._ Nothing could be done about this for now, clearly. Maybe it was a good time to see what the others were up to. 

He'd been holed up in his room for the better half of the morning already, he hadn't even had his tea yet. Freddie takes a quick glance in the dusty mirror by the door, muttering a growly "Good enough," while patting his incessantly unruly hair into place. Even though only his bandmates would see it, it vexes him dreadfully. Damn that double crown. 

He heads out into the dark, slightly musty smelling hallway. He didn't mind the smell per se, they _were_ hunkering down to get this album recorded in an old farm house after all. He found it quite charming in all honesty; despite his nitpicking. The farmhouse felt lived-in, like a happy place. 

* * *

"Ah, hey Fred!" Roger's voice floated pleasantly in from .. somewhere. From the opposite hallway beyond the kitchen he appeared grinning, an unlit cigarette loosely clenched between his teeth. He was carrying an ashtray in one hand and a floppy brown corduroy hat under his arm. 

The faded velour couch (florals in brown and cream, absolutely dreadful) hardly protests under his slight weight. Roger places the ashtray on the large antique coffee table, tossing the hat there too. The blonde lights his cigarette, inhaling deeply. "Care to join me for a smoke?" he lilts, offering an orange plastic lighter and a pack of Reds to Freddie. The singer can't help but smile at his friend's naturally uplifting demeanor.

"Of course dear, thank you," he replies, accepting the pack. He takes a seat, neatly, next to Roger on the horrid example of seating furniture crime. _Didn't Roger just get these last night?_ Freddie can't help but notice the pack is already half gone. 

"Have you been up long Rog? Did my terribly shitty playing disturb your sweet slumber?" Freddie crosses his legs after lighting up, looking at the drummer apologetically.

"Ha! What are you on about Fred? I slept like a baby, actually. But no, it was Brian that woke me up, that wanker," he glances at Freddie with an overly dramatic scowl. Freddie replies wordlessly with a smoky exhale and raised eyebrows, waiting for his friend to divulge. Roger adjusts his posture so he can better enunciate with his hands. "He came in, sat his skinny arse on my bed, and started prattling on about time compression in space ... I think. While eating toast.” 

A pause. Freddie blinks at him.

“Can you believe it?" He waits, looking at Freddie as if this were groundbreaking news.

"Well, er ... yes darling, we are talking about Brian here," Freddie takes a drag, wrinkling his nose with a smile, ashing his cigarette into the tray then exhaling slowly. "Were you really that shocked?" Freddie honestly looks confused, albeit amused. 

"No no, not so much about the space thing ... but I’d expect him to bring me some damned toast if he was going to wake me up at least, the crude bastard." 

Freddie crowed out a sharp laugh, throwing an ancient feather-filled pillow at him. "You're absolutely ridiculous, Roger."

“Oh yeah Fred _you're_ one to talk. Besides, you love me." Roger beams at him, pearly incisors on display. The cheeky git. 

"Ridiculousness is one of my strong points dear, and of course I love you.” The drummer smiles at him and places his hands over his heart endearingly. “Seriously though, I would be shocked at his lack of hospitality too. I do _loathe_ a rude man in my bed." The word _loathe_ is punctuated with widened eyes.

"Oh Freddie, _do_ shut up!"

Freddie laughs, it's a beautiful and full sound. Their playful bickering lingers and fills the farmhouse. Freddie's musical frustration is mercifully forgotten for the time being. 

The ruckus attracts Brian. He saunters out looking a bit wistful, perhaps he’d been lost in thought. "Hello children, what on earth is happening out here?" Brian asks, curious, but also not so sure he wants to hear about it.

"Oh, our Roger is upset that you didn't make him breakfast this morning," Freddie says, frowning. That frown soon disappears in deference to a big toothy grin when Roger smacks him on the shoulder with a magazine. Brian looks on, confused. He crosses his arms and waits for the expected oncoming uproar to die down before attempting a reply. Dealing with these two is always a brutal trial in patience.

_"Freddie!"_ Roger extinguishes his spent cigarette and flicks the blackened butt at his rotten friend. "But, Bri, seriously! It _was_ quite rude!" Brian knits his eyebrows in a disappointed way, tilting his head. He still doesn't speak. Oh, _bother._

Freddie's jaw remains uncollected from the floor, he’s completely aghast that Roger had the nerve to actually flick a butt at him. He looks to Brian, mouth still agape, as if he is going to _fix_ this or has any answers. The curly-haired man can only shake his head and flutter his eyelashes toward the ceiling, surrendering to the chaos.

"Children _please,"_ he takes a seat in a very out-of-place red loveseat adjacent to them. "Roger, I apologize for my carelessness. I didn't think you'd want toast after all that drinking last night, but I should've offered at least," Roger nods in agreeance, pouting cartoonishly. "And _don't_ throw cigarettes at Freddie," he scolds pointedly from beneath his brow.

"But it wasn't lit!" the drummer protests.

"Thank you Brian.” The raven-haired singer turns to face Roger, “It's the _principle_ of it darling, what a vulgar and bitchy little thing to do!" Freddie chides, looking faux-hurt. He finally tamps out his own barely smoked cigarette.

"Okay I'm sorry Freddie! How can I make it up to you?" Roger rolls his eyes dramatically, into what could be described as a full-body eyeroll. He puts his hands together piously in a mock prayer-like gesture.

"Oh _please.”_ Freddie scoffs, crossing his arms. “Kindly just fuck off and make me my tea Rog.” Roger gets up with a huff, grumbling, but wastes no time. _“And_ some toast with jam and butter," Roger can't believe what he's hearing. He stops dead in his tracks and shoots Freddie a look of incredulous disbelief over his shoulder. "Please, darling?" Freddie adds, grinning sweetly at the drummer.

"Freddie Mercury, are you _serious?_ Have you gone mad?" Freddie nods, blinking expressionlessly at the questions, answering affirmatively to both. "I swear to _God,"_ Roger fumes. 

They both know they're playing. Brian isn't quite in on the joke and is mostly just relieved the boys aren’t shouting anymore. Even their speaking voices are usually too loud for his tastes. 

Roger continues his dirge toward the kitchen to make the requested apology tea and toast with jam. He doesn't _actually_ mind, but he swears the entire way. The ridiculousness is too much, Freddie can't help but giggle at the situation.

Suddenly Freddie is keenly aware of an absence … the group dynamic isn’t quite complete without their bassist, John. Where was his back up?

Brian sighs exasperatedly, blowing a rogue curl out of his line of sight. The singer turns his attention toward him. "Have you seen our dear John yet today Bri?"

"I haven't. I haven't seen him since last night now that you mention it. He did drink quite a bit.” Brian massages his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe you should go and check in on him?" he suggests. Freddie shifts, swallowing a lump in his throat he didn’t know existed.

_"Me?"_ Freddie asks, the word leaves him before he has a chance to realize how _odd_ that may have come across. _Why not him?_ No need for that kind of reply (or unnecessary implication). Roger and Brian seemed to be blessedly clueless in regards to Freddie’s increasingly complicated feelings towards John. Freddie quickly attempts turning toward the dramatics, to offset any possible question in Brian's mind about his odd reply. "Roger is making me toast Brian! It would be beyond rude to let it go cold, yes?"

Brian looks at him skeptically, in that peculiar angled way.

_Shit._

Freddie looks on expectantly, as if none of that were just said. He lights another cigarette to keep himself from fidgeting. He inhales deeply, eventually letting it escape from his nose. If for nothing else, he thinks it looks very theatrical. The harsh chemicals burn his sinuses and he instantly regrets it (but tries to retain looking cool, stifling a cough.) 

"But, Freddie ... you're much closer to him than I, you're better friends. It might be a little … err, awkward, if I were to show up at his door.” Freddie is nervously bouncing an ankle on his opposite knee and fussing over his cuticles. “Don't you think?"

He was right, Freddie knew it. He nearly caused more of a fuss in protest, but decided against it. _“More of a fuss”_ about anything John-related was definitely not what he wanted Brian's attention to be focused on.

"Oh ... alright. But not until after I've had my toast, I'm not an ungrateful beast." 

Brian smiles. “I hope he’s doing alright. He seemed a bit … _off_ last night. I pray that it has nothing to do with the excessive drinking.”

_“Excessive?”_ Freddie’s foot stops bouncing. “Was it really?” Freddie looks at him with growing concern. How hadn’t he noticed? 

Oh … _that’s right._

Freddie had been preoccupied with Scrabble. John decided against playing with them, opting to drink alone and avoid the merriment. It _had_ seemed peculiar, Deaky was usually up for anything fun with the boys. Freddie was a tad sulky about not having his usual Scrabble partner, but he wasn’t going to pester him about it. The three ended up playing individually (Brian, _of course,_ won). Freddie hadn’t seen John leave the room, but definitely noticed he was gone at some point during the night. _Why hadn’t he noticed that John seemed off?_ Maybe the bassist had been hiding it from him, but why on earth would he? Freddie’s breath is bated and he’s looking at Brian with concern.

“Not excessive for _you_ per se, Freddie. But for John, it was more than his usual.” Freddie knew that John’s “usual” was exactly two beers, then wondered how he came to know that. He scowls, he’s actually quite bothered by John being described as “off,” and his personal failure to notice it. From his best recollection the bassist seemed fine, perhaps even _more_ jovial than normal. He'd go as far as to describe it as a bit flirty, truth be told. Maybe that was due to the alcohol? Freddie decided _not_ to dwell on that idea.

With a crescendo, the teapot began yelling from the kitchen. For a moment Freddie wasn’t sure if the falsetto tone belonged to the drummer or the teapot. That noise was soon followed by a litany of colorful cursing and clattering from Roger. 

Brian and Freddie look at each other worriedly. 

“I’m fine, it’s fine!” the drummer shouts.

Moments later the blonde was returning to the sitting room with a serving tray. It contained four buttered toasts with jam, two mugs of tea, napkins and a small spoon. Sugar and milk too, of course. He actually did do a bit more than was expected. Freddie’s face lit up. He crushes cigarette number two of the day into the rapidly crowding ashtray.

"Oh sweetheart, you shouldn't have! How very thoughtful." Freddie steeples his hands to his lips in excitement before grabbing a slice of toast and taking a big bite. It was divine. The strawberry preserves melded with the butter and toast exquisitely. He was quite hungry and nearly unaware of it, so wrapped up in his musical troubles that he'd skipped eating. He dropped two sugar cubes and a bit of milk into his too-hot mug of Earl Grey and began steeping. 

"Bri, the other tea is for you. That toast is mine though, you can sod right off!"

_"Thank_ you, Roger." Brian smiles at him. He did appreciate the gesture. He added nothing extra to his tea, it smelled lovely. The idea of only Roger being capable of _burning_ tea briefly enters his mind. 

“So, where the heck is Deaky?” Roger asked between chomps, a scattered shower of crumbs falling to the floor. 

“We aren’t sure. In his room, I assume. He may be hung over. Fred was about to go check on him.” Brian blows at the surface of his tea, glancing across at Freddie. Freddie nods, chewing. 

The singer can’t help but feel a knot of anxiety creep up in his gut. Why was he feeling so apprehensive about this? _Maybe it’s nothing serious. Maybe he’s simply hungover or sleepy,_ he tries to reassure himself. Freddie gets lost in worry over the issue, idly eating and sipping. 

Brian and Roger have begun bickering over Brian’s rude awakening, but it’s become white noise. 

Freddie stands up, quietly brushes himself off, and makes his way down the dark hallway. His bandmates don’t even notice. 

* * *

He hesitates momentarily, then gently knocks twice with the backside of his index and middle fingers. “John darling, are you alright in there?” His voice is soft, he doesn’t want to jar him. A minute passes, no answer. Freddie swallows hard. 

“Deaky? Can I come in?” Still no answer. Another two minutes creep by, Freddie swears he can feel sweat forming on his brow. Maybe it’s just the stuffiness of the humid hallway. 

“I’m coming in now, dear,” Freddie warns. He opens the door a crack, peeking in. John is indeed inside, and from the looks of it he’s buried under approximately seven blankets, complete with a pillow over his head. If his long hair hadn’t given him away Freddie wouldn’t be sure he were there at all. He can’t help but smile at the sight. 

The squeak from the latch stirs the bassist, from whom Freddie hears a muffled groan. John pushes the pillow away from his face, rolling his head toward the door. Freddie’s put his whole face through the crack, and he’s grinning at John. "Morning sweetheart," he chuckles.

“Oh God,” the blanket-clad man laments. “Bugger off, I beg you, please Freddie,” John enhances the sentiment by putting the pillow back on his face.

“Not a chance, darling.” Freddie slinks in, closing the heavy door behind him oh-so quietly, prancing effulgently toward the bed. He sits down on the mattress deliberately, making it clear to John he was here and with full intent to pester him. Freddie is still caught up in trying to convince himself that _surely_ nothing was wrong. 

John removes just enough of the pillow to make himself heard. “Ugh, seriously Freddie. Please, just … just go away.” 

Freddie sits there, awkwardly in silence for a beat, unsure how to respond.

“D—,”

_“Leave._ Just leave.”

_Did … John just snap at him?_

The singer tenses, he blinks in disbelief trying to shake it off. He wasn’t expecting this kind of reception and had no idea how to mediate the situation. Never before had the bassist used such a cold tone toward him.

“But, darling ... are you okay? Are you feeling under the weather or is it something else?” Freddie can’t help but notice that his heart rate is well above average. He’s never dealt with conflict well, and sadly, this felt like just that. 

John abruptly smacks the pillow away from his face and onto the floor, transmitting to Freddie a disappointed glare. He looks hurt. 

_His eyes are puffy … had he been crying? Or was this just his body’s way of responding to a hangover?_ Freddie’s getting so worked up over it he starts to feel a little ill.

The bassist silently rests his sullen eyes on Freddie for an uncomfortable amount of time before rolling onto his side. Freddie has no idea how to respond, had he done something to upset him? What happened, and why was John shutting him out? 

Sunlight glares through the narrow space between the valance and lower curtain rod. Dust particles float before Freddie’s eyes, the ray feels like a spotlight. His normally black eyes are definitely brown under this brilliant beaming heat. Freddie thinks this _must_ be some sort of divine symbolism.

“John, sweetheart … please talk to me,” No answer. At least John isn’t still asking (or demanding) him to leave. Using all the courage he could muster, he asks softly, “Have I done something to upset you?”

“Please don’t make me ask again, Freddie,” John mutters, scarcely above a whisper. 

Freddie nods, to himself mostly, then stands up and slinks out just as quietly as he came in. He’s utterly shaken, overwhelmed by a terrible mixture of confusion and anxious guilt. 

The faint click of the door lets John know that he’s alone again, and all the stupid emotions he’d been pushing down seem to all rush out at once. He feels terrible for how roughly he treated Freddie. He tries to be quiet but a weary sob escapes his throat without his consent. He covers his mouth in horror.

Of course, Freddie hears it. He’s got his ear pressed against the door on the other side. He can’t quite explain why but he feels a piece of his heart break in that moment. It takes all of his strength to not go back in and comfort his friend, but John seemed pretty adamant about wanting to be alone.

After a few minutes of debating over what would be the correct thing to do, Freddie swears, he _swears_ he hears John say his name. Maybe it was a cry. But there’s no way, right? He decides that’s just wishful thinking and makes his way back to his bandmates. Then, he feels bad for a scenario like that being his version of wishful thinking. He inwardly chastises himself for his selfish entitlement. Freddie realizes that more than anything, he really just wants John to talk to him about what’s wrong, but since that isn’t possible he forces himself to leave it alone. 

Freddie finds himself needing cigarette number three for the day. 

* * *

He makes his way back to Brian and Roger, they’re no longer bickering. Roger’s got his face in an American muscle car magazine and Brian appears to be deep in thought, closely examining an old sixpence. 

“Oh, welcome back Freddie,” greets Roger. “How’d it go, how’s Deaky?” 

When Freddie doesn’t answer immediately, Brian takes notice. Freddie’s just kind of _sitting there,_ looking distracted and far away. “Freddie, is John okay?”

Remembering that their friend really seemed to need some alone time, Freddie hesitantly minimizes the situation. “Oh I’m sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind. Songwise. He’ll be alright dears, he’s just feeling a bit hungover I think. We may need to practice without him tonight.” They don’t notice that the cigarette he’s holding is trembling slightly. 

Roger frowns, then lights up. “Our poor Deaky. I’ll have to give him this Barracuda centerfold when he’s feeling better.” He holds it up to show the others. It’s a beautiful new 1975 model, cherry red with a thick black stripe stretching across the hood and roof. They both have to admit, it looks completely _badass._

“Mmm yes, I think that would do the trick Rog,” smiles Freddie, unleashing a stream of smoke into the air. He rests his unfinished cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. 

He sighs, slapping his knees decisively. “Alright, let’s go take a late lunch then practice, what do you say boys?”

“Hell yes! Toast wasn’t enough!” Roger exclaims. 

Brian chuckles. “That sounds lovely. I’m famished … how about Italian?”

“No! I want fish and chips. Italian is too heavy for lunch, yeah?” He glances between Brian and Freddie for confirmation.

“Is all that oily garbage really lighter than Italian, Roger?”

“Yes Brian! If we don’t get it from a pub it won’t be too oily.”

Freddie watches his cigarette burn out, not interfering with the argument. How poetic it was, if you let it be. He muses on writing a song about it later. 

After five minutes of this nonsense Freddie stands up, declaring “Oh my _God,_ I’m calling a driver you ninnies. I’ll figure it out.” They both look at him, scoffing.

From the kitchen they hear, “I have better taste, I assure you. I’ll pay, please just shut up!”

Roger sticks his tongue out at Brian, regardless. Brian rolls his eyes. They both loved the idea of Freddie paying though. 

Unfortunately, there weren’t many eating establishments in rural Rusper. 

Freddie ended up taking them to a pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't plan on this fic being super long, although writing them is extremely fun so maybe I'll do more than originally planned if people like this. I would love to hear what you think ~ thanks so very much for reading <3
> 
> * * *  
> Oh god, side note; sorry for making Roger read a so-obvious-it-hurts muscle car magazine. I didn't even realize the faux pas until I'd already finished writing this lmao.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they return, all three of them have downed a few drinks. Light lunch indeed. The boys raucously reenter the home, laughing about Freddie popping a button on his pants while at the restaurant.

“But I don’t give a shit!” asserts Freddie, and the other two laugh. “I can’t be insulted over this. I mean _really,_ I never button my damned pants anyway.” They both look at him skeptically, taking the piss. It’s just so fun to aggravate him. “Have either of you _ever_ seen my pants buttoned?”

“I assure you we are not wasting time staring at your crotch, Fred,” Brian looks disgusted. 

“What? Why _aren’t_ you? I’m hurt.”

“Oh come off it, I saw your face when you realized the button had popped off!” Roger chortles, which in turn causes Brian to snicker.

“That’s simply because it meant I drank too much, do you have any idea how tight these britches are? I can’t afford to out-drink them,” retorted Freddie. Neither of them believed him. “They’re silk, you cretins!”

“Yeah yeah,” Roger waves him off with a laugh, sitting down on the horrible velour couch. He puts his feet on the table and resumes reading his magazine. 

In a huff, Freddie retreats to his room to change out of his buttonless trousers and into some comfy white terry cloth shorts and a cute tank top patterned with tiny red stars. He washes his hands (he loathes smelling like a bar, or greasy food for that matter), then returns to his friends in the living room. 

Roger notices the singer’s re-entry, wolf-whistling at him as he pads down the hallway barefoot, adjusting a silver bracelet. “Hey hey! You look pretty cute Freddie.” He waggles his eyebrows at the singer, “I mean, for a bloke.”

“Don’t I though?” He juts his hip out, striking a pose. “Thank you ever so much, sweetie.” Freddie makes his way to the loveseat, where he’d placed the take-out meal he’d purchased for John.

“I mean it, you’re adorable. We really should make out sometime.” He’s joking, though he looks dead serious. Neither of them know when to stop. Brian knows this well and mentally prepares himself for the worst. 

Freddie makes an intensely sour face. “Oh dear, Rogie, you’re not my type at all, I'm so sorry.” 

Roger wasn’t expecting even a joke rejection. “What? What do you mean? Are you saying you don’t want to kiss me? I _am_ the heartthrob of the band, you know.”

Freddie shakes his head solemnly, looking at the carpet. “Well, Rog, it’s just that I read in an interview that you’re … you’re a bottom. We’d be utterly useless together. You are beautiful though, darling.” 

Roger lets loose a raucous laugh. “Fuck you, Fred! I wouldn’t kiss you unless you shaved your back anyhow!” Freddie throws his head back in equally raucous laughter then bows, blowing Roger an air-kiss. Again our singer finds himself dodging pillows.

Brian lets on like he’s _super_ annoyed, but in reality he loves seeing his friends goof off. Even when it gets ridiculous, or downright vulgar. He sighs, he so often feels like the surrogate parent of these two.

_“Okay_ boys, how about we relax a bit then plan on group practice in an hour? I don’t quite fancy shredding any killer riffs on a full stomach.” 

Freddie smirks at the drummer playfully before turning his attention to Brian. “Alright. Yes. That sounds lovely. I’ll go deliver this to John.” 

That sickening feeling of dread crept back into Freddie’s gut as he remembers the events from earlier. He’d gotten John some food to go as a gesture of kindness, since he hadn’t yet emerged from his room today. It was already 5pm, the sun was setting. Freddie had been looking for an excuse to return to John, if he’s being honest. This whole situation felt awful and he desperately needed resolution or he knew he’d worry himself into a frenzy. 

The sound reverberation in the carpeted hallway was completely deadened. Freddie swears he could hear his own pulse while making his way towards John’s door. The bag makes ugly static noises in the quiet hallway, by sheer contrast it was deafening. Perhaps Freddie was glad of that though … he wasn’t exactly looking forward to his arrival being a complete surprise to their bassist in hiding. 

He knocks lightly, then clears his throat. “John honey, I’ve brought you food, you must be hungry.” 

A span of what feels like _forever_ (but in actuality was probably about fifteen seconds) passes in silence.

“Come in,” Freddie hears from within the room. _Oh, thank God he doesn’t sound cross._ His pulse quickens, and he exhales a breath he didn’t know he’d held captive.

_Fuck,_ he thinks. _Why did I drink?_ Knowing fully well that he holds his alcohol just fine. Knowing fully well he drank _because_ of this situation. He’s dreading saying too much, or the wrong thing entirely. But they’re friends, why was he so worried?

_My God Freddie you sound like a fucking loon,_ he internally scolds himself.

_Alright. On with it._

He opens the door just slightly to peer in. John’s sitting on the bed, with his back toward Freddie, plucking away at his bass. There’s no amp in the room, and Freddie is thankful. He’s hoping to talk. 

Freddie rustles the bag, “I hope you like fish and chips darling,” he comes in, sets the parcel behind John and sits down on the opposite side of the bed with his hands clasped in his lap. Freddie’s throat feels dry.

“I do,” he gets up and puts the guitar on a stand before turning around. Freddie looks up at John and a mild relief washes over him. He doesn’t look upset anymore, thankfully. “Thank you Freddie, I appreciate it.” He sits back on the bed cross-legged and begins to open the sack. Freddie shifts, turning to sit similarly next to him.

“It’s no trouble at all, dear,” he smiles, searching John’s face for any kind of emotional readout. No dead giveaways it seems. John munches on the already soggy chips. “I am sorry it is a bit oily, and a bit old now I’m afraid ... we stayed out longer than expected.” Freddie squints at him in apology. 

“That’s okay Freddie, it’s still very good.” He picks up a sprig of garnish, twirling it between two fingers. He looks a bit unsure about what it was. Freddie nearly made a joke about not eating it but held his tongue.

There’s too much silence. Or maybe Freddie’s just feeling anxious. He fidgets. His eyes land on two finger cymbals on the nightstand next to an incense stick that had been extinguished. Oh, he _loves_ these. He tings them daintily a few times between his fingers before realizing it may be irritating to the bassist, who is still completely silent. 

The thick quiet is unbearable for Freddie. He sighs, leaning back on his arms, idly watching the other man eat. He pays Freddie no mind, concentrated on his meal. 

“Do you mind me being here John? Er, I can leave if you’d rather—”

“No, it’s alright,” He eats a chip before continuing, “I like your company Freddie.” His eyes were still downcast, firmly planted on his food. 

“I’m glad to hear it. Can I have one of those?” 

John nods, scooting his platter toward Freddie. The singer wasn’t even hungry … it was mostly just something to _say._ Freddie takes the worst looking one.

“Oh no, take one of the nicer ones Freddie, I insist.” 

“I prefer the floppy ones, dear.” 

John snorts. It takes Freddie a minute to process the implied innuendo, “Ha! Oh my _God._ I didn’t mean it like that, for once.”

“Suuuure you didn’t,” The bassist finally looks up and grins at him with a giggle. What an absolute relief. Freddie rolls his eyes in response, deciding against elaborating on a stupid dick joke for the moment. It’s wholly out of character, but he’s still nervous and doesn’t want to potentially say anything subversive or off-tone right now. His control is a miracle considering the slight alcohol intake. The room returns to silence, and faint chewing.

“Um ... Freddie,” John begins.

“Yes, what is it dear?” 

“About earlier … I—I’m sorry, for throwing you out.”

Freddie wants to reply, he opens his mouth to reply, but he can’t—the words won’t budge. He closes his jaw. His immediate instinct is to downplay how bad it made him feel, but he also wants John to explain what happened. Freddie had been horribly confused and feeling guilty since the event. He didn’t want John to feel bad on his behalf either, though. So he waits, hoping John will elaborate.

The younger man is clearly struggling with words, and maybe emotions too. Freddie turns toward him, and John meets his eyes after a short time. That look sends a spark of electricity to Freddie’s core and he is suddenly too self-aware. The singer is shocked into speech.

“It’s alright John,” he blurts, only half meaning it. He doesn’t want him feeling bad about it.

“No, Freddie, it really wasn’t,” John looks down, breaking eye contact. “It was cruel of me.” He fiddles with his fork on the platter. Freddie reaches toward him, gently placing his hand on the bassist’s forearm. 

“It’s _alright,_ John, really.” After hearing John’s apology, he does mean it. The physical contact drags John’s eyes back up to Freddie’s. Freddie gives his arm a comforting rub and a light squeeze. “I just hope you’re okay, sweetheart. Do you want to talk about anything?”

John furrows his brow and glances away from him, setting his jaw in an off-putting manner that told Freddie that there was definitely something wrong. 

“Do you … not remember, Freddie?”

Freddie mirrors his look of confusion. “Remember what, darling? What happened?”

“Oh _God,”_ John falls back onto the pillows dramatically, looking a mixture of horrified and embarrassed. “You don’t even remember.” He covers his face with the back of his arm.

Freddie does them both the favor of removing what was left of the meal onto the side table. He returns, sitting on the bed cross-legged next to the forlorn younger man. 

He gently removes John's arm from his face and the bassist gives him a dull, woeful look. 

“Please talk to me darling. What have I done?” Freddie is firm. Not a shred of joviality.

John groans. 

“I’m serious John, you need to tell me.” His intense stare is unfaltering. 

“I can’t … bring myself to say it. _Please_ do not make me say it out loud.” He looks miserable. He’s really and truly pleading over this, whatever it is. Freddie really starts to worry now. _What on earth had happened between them?_

“John honey. Please level with me. You’re worrying me and I need to know what’s happened. Did I … _do_ … something while I was drunk?”

_Oh, no. Oh God, oh no. Had he made a move on John and not even remember?_ He starts feeling sick to his stomach at the thought. 

“N-no, Fred, it … wasn’t that.” 

_Thank God. But, was he being honest?_ Freddie’s furrowed brow deepens.

“This is important dear. Are you certain I didn’t ... hurt, or … maybe frighten you in some way?” Freddie’s heartbeat felt like a terrified bird inside his chest. The look on his face was that of a frightened bird, also. 

“What? N-no, Freddie. It wasn’t anything like that.” 

Freddie places his hand on John’s wrist earnestly, gently brushing over the skin there with his thumb. “John. _Please,”_ he whispers. “You can’t be this upset over something that happened between us and simply not talk to me. Try to imagine how I feel, you’re my friend and I’ve hurt you somehow … and I’m not getting the opportunity to make it right.” Freddie can’t help but notice that John winces slightly at his words. Freddie sighs. “Don’t think I wasn’t aware that you were crying earlier. I didn’t want to mention it because I don’t want to embarrass you, but I need to know how to fix this, sweetheart.” 

“Freddie,” the bassist inhales deeply, “ _Shit.”_

“What aren’t you telling me dear? What is so terrible? You know I’d never judge you, right?”

“It’s not that Freddie … it’s just … _really_ fucking embarrassing.”

The singer says nothing, opting to take John’s palm into his hand and hold it there for a minute, caressing it lightly. “Sweetheart. You can tell me anything. You know that.” 

_“Anything_ doesn’t usually involve … err, that.” He allows Freddie to continue massaging his hand. It’s actually very comforting. They sit there in silence for a few minutes until Freddie decides to get comfortable and lay down next to him, propping his head up on his fist to face the bassist.

“Please look at me dear.” He does. “I won’t force you to talk. But please know I am in utter turmoil. It hurts me knowing that I’ve hurt you in some way, and I would _never_ hurt you intentionally. How will I know how to prevent this in the future?”

John sighs. It takes all of his willpower to not just turn over and cover his head with a pillow again. He truly wants to talk to Freddie but it’s hard to get the words out. _How can he possibly admit this?_ He closes his eyes and attempts a dialogue. 

“Freddie … I … uhm,” he struggles. The singer patiently looks on, waiting for John to sort out the words. “Okay. Remember last night, err, before you all played Scrabble? We had been drinking ...”

“Yes, I do.” 

“Do you remember, at one point in the night I went to use the loo, and I ran into you in the hallway on the way out?”

Freddie blinks. “Yes, but just vaguely.” 

“Did you happen to take notice of … how much I’d had to drink?” 

“No, dear. But Brian mentioned it was more than your usual.” 

“Er, well. Yes. I thought it would make me feel less … inhibited.” John says nothing for a while, tugging a lock of hair between his free fingers. “Freddie … I,” he hesitates.

“Honey, please go on—I promise I won’t bite. What did you need bravery for?”

John glances down, blinking, unsure how to continue. He bites at his bottom lip nervously.

“Um … err. Freddie, can I ask you something?” John asks, a little hushed. Freddie can’t help but notice that his cheeks definitely have the rosy glow of unimaginable embarrassment.

“Of course. Anything.” 

“This is difficult to ask, but I need to know. Uh ... were you erm ... were you _flirting_ with me, last night?”

_Fuck._

Freddie holds his gaze, unsure how to react. _Unable_ to react. He feels like he’d been caught red handed but can’t even remember his crime, he can only stare, completely still and wide-eyed. John eventually averts his gaze, looking shameful and chewing on his lower lip again. Freddie retracts his hand from John’s. Suddenly this all seems a bit uncomfortable.

“John … please don’t take this the wrong way but, perhaps I drank more than I knew. I … don’t remember anything specific dear, but it’s possible.” Freddie then props himself up against the headboard and takes in a deep breath, folding his hands in his lap. “What else happened? Why were you so upset?” His breath is short.

“I don’t completely remember either, Freddie.” 

“Then ... why? Why would you ask such a thing, dear?”

“Because. I can’t imagine doing what I did, if I hadn’t … gotten signals from you in the first place, Freddie.”

“I’m sorry honey, what are you talking about?” 

“You don’t even remember. And I was so upset over it,” he chuckles, defeatedly. “I should have known. You wouldn’t have let a problem just drag on like that,” he grumbles nearly inaudibly, chastising himself. 

Freddie shakes his head, confusion spreading across his features, feathery black hair sweetly framing his worried face. “What happened John?” There’s panic in his voice. 

“I feel like an idiot.” 

“What? Please John I—,” 

“Freddie, I tried to kiss you.” 

Suddenly it’s as if all the oxygen has left the room. Inwardly the singer reels, clutching his chest, it feels as though the wind has been knocked out of him. “John … I ... I’m sorry, _what?”_

“After you rejected me I came in here to mope until afternoon today. I was really embarrassed and didn’t want to face you.”

_“Rejected?”_ Freddie repeats, shaking his head. The word feels so ugly and wrong in his mouth. “Whatever do you mean darling?”

“When I ran into you in the hallway … and it was dark, you know,” Freddie’s head is swimming. “I _thought_ you’d been flirting with me all day, so in the hall, err … I guess I had some courage from the alcohol and ... asked if I could, erm … kiss you.” 

John coughs, fist to his mouth. 

_Holy shit._

Freddie is unmoving. Brows furrowed, lips tight, eyes closed. He looked to be enduring something extremely painful. He does remember. The problem is, this is not how he remembered it.

The singer sits up again, turning towards John. 

“John sweetheart, please look at me.” He does as asked. Once Freddie has his full attention he continues. “I need you to listen to me. And believe me. Do you trust me?”

“Always, Freddie.”

“Okay good. Now sit up and face me, come here.” John obeys, looking sheepish and wanting to be anywhere but here right now. The two are now knee to knee, cross-legged and facing each other atop a mattress that is a tad too small for two grown men sitting in this manner. 

Freddie takes John’s hands into his own, squeezing them affectionately. 

“All of this was simply a big misunderstanding.” John’s expression turns apprehensive. “Do you believe me darling?”

“Well, yes, I assume that was the reason you rejected me, Freddie. I misread the signs.” 

“No, no. I mean, I _misheard_ you in the hallway, dear. A rejection never happened.” Freddie’s eyes are so intense and resolute that John has no choice but to believe him.

The furrow in John’s brow smooths out, realization dawning on him. “Oh … I see.” 

“We were both a bit drunk, dear … perhaps your words were slurred? Or maybe my _hearing_ was slurred. I honestly thought you were asking if I wanted more of that nasty bourbon with the strange name. I swear it.”

Silence. 

“But Freddie … what about … all the flirting I did with you? Had you not noticed?” 

“I did notice, dear. I didn’t want to allow myself to believe it.” 

“Then, what? Why …? I don’t understand. What do you mean Freddie?”

“Sweetheart. You have no idea. I restrain myself from flirting with you constantly. I assure you. I was never sure if it was … mutual. And I didn’t want to take advantage of you when you were vulnerable,” he pulls John’s hand to his lips and gives his knuckles the lightest kiss. “My dearest, do you understand?” Freddie’s big brown eyes are boring a formidable hole into the depths of John’s heart. Freddie’s natural and easily-given affection was welcomed and simply staggering to the bassist. He didn’t _want_ to be blushing but he could feel it starting to happen.

John swallows back his breathlessness, but his wide, rapt eyes betray him. “Y-yes, Freddie, I think so.” He wonders if Freddie can hear his pulse, and there’s no way he doesn’t notice the scarlet tint spreading across John’s features.

“Let me put it this way darling,” Freddie pauses, fussing with his lip with his pointer finger while working out how to word his thoughts. “I’d prefer if you were fully present, and able to give consent if and when either of us act on any of this _flirting_ business. I can’t have either of us regretting anything,” Freddie offers an apologetic smile. “Can you imagine the hell I would catch if we made out and it caused the band to break up?”

John giggled quietly, blushing hard at the words Freddie dared say out loud. 

The sight is so utterly precious to Freddie that it’s a struggle not to tackle the bassist with hugs and kisses right then and there. However, he’s aware of how potentially dangerous this venture is, and it doesn’t escape him that he’s never been so worried or _careful_ over simple flirting before. That thought alone is enough to make Freddie’s heart flutter.

He gently pulls John into a hug, slowly stroking his wavy hair. “I’m so sorry you were upset sweetheart. My heart is shattered over it.”

The bassist wraps his arms around Freddie, returning the gesture. “I’m embarrassed. It was ridiculous,” he finds himself muttering into Freddie’s hair. He can’t help but notice how _pretty_ it smelled. Maybe Freddie had some flowers in his DNA after all. Being this close and intimate with Freddie was absolutely intoxicating and it made John feel a little lightheaded.

“No, honey. It wasn’t,” Freddie pulls away from him to look him in the face. “You thought I’d rejected you and you wept over it. That is utterly heartbreaking my dear. I am touched that you care so much about … me.”

“I do. I care a lot about you, Freddie. I always have.” 

The singer is so touched by John’s sincerity, he closes his eyes and inhales deeply—he swears he can feel his heart filling with an unfiltered joy and light that he has no other comparison to. He wants to fully experience this moment as it’s happening. Honestly, he’d been hoping against hope that something, anything—be it physical or spiritual—would happen between them. He simply knew he wanted _more,_ whether it be chaste or something beyond that. This long drawn-out crush, though it was sweet, was threatening to eat him alive.

“Thank you for talking to me about this honestly, darling. I know it wasn’t easy.” 

John nods and smiles at him, it’s a sweet, shy smile. The relief inside the bassist is immeasurable. _Freddie hadn’t rejected him._ He could fly to the moon if he were asked to. And if he’s processing this correctly, it sounds as if Freddie yearns for more affection in their friendship, too. 

“You know, you’re off the hook tonight if you don’t feel up to practicing, by the way.” Freddie raises a devious eyebrow at him, as if the bassist were skipping school and this was a secret between them.

“Oh but I do, Freddie. I want to play tonight. Playing with the band makes me happy,” he grins. “But, thank you for covering for me.” 

“It was really no trouble dear, I was worried about you.”

John smiles. “Freddie … can I … tell you something?”

“Always. Please.” 

“You’re … beautiful. Breathtaking.” The singer feels his own lips curling into a demure smile, John’s directness hits him right in the gut and he’s surprised his jaw hasn’t unhinged and fallen to the mattress. “I’ve been dying to say it for, well, a very long time now.” 

Freddie didn’t know it were scientifically possible to blush so quickly. He flutters his lashes furiously. “What took you so long, dear?” He tries to play it cool and confident but he feels totally out of his league and beyond flustered right now. It seems as if his emotions are on display in a fancy mirrored box. 

Freddie’s eyes widen, John is looking at him so … _sincerely._ Freddie had never felt so vulnerable. Before Freddie knows what’s happening, John’s long fingers are carding through his thick black hair and his friend is mere inches from his face.

“I know we can’t right now … but I want to kiss you, Freddie.”

Both of them are breathless. Freddie can’t believe what he’s hearing. He’s stunned. 

“Darling … are you sure?” 

“Yes. I desperately want to kiss you.” Hearing those words sent the chill of the north winds down Freddie’s spine. His skin prickled, the hair stood up on his arms. “May I? I mean, later … when we have time.” He gulps. “Err, you know. So that it isn’t rushed …?”

“John … sweetie, I’m actually at a loss for words.” Freddie was shaking slightly. He wanted to bury his face. Who else but John Richard Deacon could embarrass Freddie _fucking_ Mercury so thoroughly, with romance and unflinching directness of all things?

_“Shit,_ I’m sorry, Freddie. I-I … don’t know what came over me,” he grimaces. His stomach suddenly drops and he retracts his hands from Freddie’s shoulders. 

“No, oh goodness no, my dear, you’ve said all the right things.” He caresses John’s cheek reassuringly with the back of his knuckles, giving the younger man a soft smile.

Relief. Oh this has been such a relieving, yet very intense conversation for the younger man. 

“I’m … glad to hear it, Freddie.” John swallows. He hadn’t stopped blushing for an actual eternity. And _where_ did all that come from? He’d never been so bold. Maybe after years of casual pining (which he’s now willing to admit to himself is exactly what he’d been doing), it’s easier to be honest; now that the proverbial dam had sprung a leak.

“Come now, let’s go see what those silly geese are up to.” Freddie turns and stands, dusting himself off and straightening his shorts. He offers a hand to John to help him up. The bassist scoots to the edge and stands with Freddie’s (unneeded, but graciously appreciated) help.

He hadn’t let go of John’s hand as they were walking toward the door. Freddie abruptly turns around, pressing his back against the door. John nearly crashes into him, but the singer uses that “accidental” momentum to grasp his waist and pull him close.

John’s eyes blow wide. Freddie’s however, are suddenly half-lidded and he’s very deliberately looking at John’s lips. They just stand there pressed together, stock still for a moment. Freddie’s heavy breathing sends stray pieces of John’s hair fluttering. It’s warm on his face.

Neither of them are wearing shoes, making John’s slight height advantage more noticeable.

Freddie drapes his arms around the bassist’s neck, never removing his eyes from his lips. “Tell me John,” he whispers, sending wild strands of electricity loose throughout John’s body. He’s shivering. “Why do you want to kiss me?”

_“Freddie,”_ a soft, ragged breath escapes John’s mouth and he finds himself gripping Freddie’s waist, holding him close.

The singer looks him in the eye, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Because … I’m attracted to you. I like you,” John replies, honestly. 

“And do you fancy kissing _everyone_ you like, sweetheart?” Freddie asks playfully. 

“No. Ehm … well, you turn me on, Freddie.” 

“Oh _my,”_ he chuckles softly. “Do I really?” Freddie purrs, nuzzling his face into John’s neck, grazing his lips against his skin ever so slightly. It’s taking every ounce of the singer’s self control to keep his tongue in his mouth.

_“Yes,”_ John breathes. Freddie’s light touching has him trembling. He involuntarily tightens his grip on the singer’s waist. 

Freddie’s got a hand buried in John’s hair at the nape of his neck while he’s very softly, and very slowly, brushing his lips across his jawline. The bassist moans, and Freddie _feels_ that low vibration against his lips and it makes him smile.

“Permission granted, dear. And you’d better make good on it,” John can’t quite reply, he’s enchanted. So he nods, exhaling breath he doesn’t even have, not daring to open his eyes yet. Freddie’s warm breath was tickling his neck with every intoxicating word he spoke.

Holding back on kissing John _right now_ was proving to be very difficult. But Freddie wanted that to be John’s conquest. After all, without his admission, none of this would be happening. Not to mention, the self indulgent thought of being seduced by John was a long-held fantasy. If John hadn’t been so blunt about his desires there’s no way Freddie would be doing any of this. The singer finds himself thanking the universe and entities he’d never believed in.

“Will you kiss me tonight?” Freddie purrs against his jaw.

John shudders. “D-do you want me to do it tonight?” He feels like he’s on fire. 

“Isn’t it obvious, dear?“ With that, he presses his knee between John’s legs, causing them to part slightly. He deliberately, but gently, rolls his hips against the younger man, just once. Just enough to make his _want_ quite apparent. John is sure he’s about to melt directly through the floorboards when he feels Freddie’s hardness pressing against the dip of his hip bone. He gently digs his nails into the singer’s skin with need. John isn't very good at subtlety, it seems.

“Find me after practice,” Freddie softly kisses his cheek. John swears he can hear the smile forming on the singer’s face. _“That_ one doesn’t count.” Somehow John manages to giggle, but he’s blushing furiously. “Believe it or not I’m pretty fucking desperate to kiss you too, darling.” Freddie whispers low, very seductively into John’s ear. 

Freddie pulls away from him slightly so as to look him in the face. “Promise you’ll come find me tonight?” John is taken off guard when he sees that the singer actually looks worried that he won’t do it. It’s completely unexpected and endearing.

John can barely move his lips, so affected by Freddie’s previous statement. “I-I promise, Freddie.”

With a final hand squeeze, Freddie flashes him a sweet, goofy smile before turning around and letting himself out.

After a stunned minute or so of just standing there gawking breathlessly, John covers his face, exhaling loudly. _Holy shit._ He suddenly feels lightheaded, had he been holding his breath? He walks over and sits back on the bed, he needs to relax and breathe or he might actually pass out. 

Freddie’s words crash around in his head wildly like ping-pong balls. _“Believe it or not I’m pretty fucking desperate to kiss you too, darling.”_ His own words echoed back to him make the bassist realize how powerful that statement was. That could’ve gone so much worse. But … it didn’t. 

He lays back, willing his breath and heart rate to even out. After about fifteen minutes, he’s feeling nearly back to normal functionality. _What was all of that?_ He doesn't want to think too hard on it, it seemed too ... good. Too good for him.

Despite that intrusive thought, he finds himself smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts <3


	3. Chapter 3

It’s so humid in the damned barn that Roger fears his fancy new custom drum heads may melt. 

The headphone-clad drummer steadily pounds away at the drone-like rhythm of Fred’s new song called _Death on Two Legs._ Rolling the toms is his favorite part, it just sounds so _cool,_ and there’s plenty of it. The metres are a bit finicky, very stop and go, but won’t pose a problem once he memorizes all the shifts in rhythm; besides, it’s not as if he’s not encouraged to innovate. Though, there are parts where there’s no bass or vocal support and he’s gotta _nail it_ alone. Luckily he’s got a built-in metronome, and he’s quite proud of it. It’s something that Freddie recognized in him early on, and the singer is never shy to brag about Roger’s incredible skills whenever an opportunity presents itself. 

Roger is concentrating so hard that he doesn’t see Brian enter. 

Brian is setting up, adjusting the overdrive and gain, _again,_ because _somebody_ (Roger) thought it’d be hilarious to turn them both down. That, combined with switching off his neck and middle pickups, it made his guitar sound like a literal toilet being transmitted over a telephone. It’d been happening so often that Brian knew to check first just to save time. He shakes his head and plugs in, after turning the volume to 10.

_Kerrrrrangggg!_ The Red Special screamed out like a banshee ripping through hell.

Roger, who until now was blissfully unaware of Brian’s presence, screamed back at it. Out of sheer fright he’d tossed a drumstick so hard that it flew across the room and nearly took Freddie’s head clean off as he was entering the practice space. 

_“Eeeyaah!”_ Freddie shrieked, ducking. He brings a hand to his pounding heart, scared to death. “Roger! What the bloody hell was that for!?”

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry Fred! Are you okay?” Roger looks horrified, eyes wide and covering his mouth. “ _Brian_ what the fuck?!” 

“Sorry Freddie, that was probably my fault,” Brian winces at the singer apologetically. He offers Roger naught but a smirk and a middle finger. Freddie looks bewildered but quickly shakes it off. The incident makes him forget all that previous _ado_ regarding their bassist … who, curiously, hasn’t arrived to practice yet. He frets over it momentarily, wondering if John is late because of what happened between them. Freddie forces a mental stop on those thoughts, deciding to at least give the man three minutes to show up before he has a personalized mental meltdown over breaking up the band due to wanting a _kiss._

“Should I even ask?” 

Brian gives Freddie a knowing look, and shakes his head “ _no.”_

“Sorry Freddie, really, I only meant to piss off Brian, not you!” 

“Oh don’t worry about it, dear, I’m sure I’ll find a way for you to make it up to me,” Freddie winks at him over his shoulder with a grin while making his way over to Brian with a handful of handwritten notes. 

Roger nods at the ceiling then puts his headphones back on, accepting his fate. He resigns to the fact that he probably deserves it (whatever _it_ may be) for nearly taking out Freddie’s eyeball. 

~ ~ ~

John is a bit shaken, truth be told, but it’s nothing that would keep him away from practice. His delay is more of a product of Freddie being unclear about when practice _was,_ exactly. The subject was more of an afterthought during their conversation. Truly, it’s become an inconvenience, because now his singular thought is how intoxicating it felt having Freddie’s lips on his neck. It makes him shiver.

He’d wanted so badly to feel those warm soft lips on his own. The idea that it could actually happen after thinking about it for _so long_ was nearly unfathomable. John finds himself unconsciously chewing his lip again. 

Suddenly he hears Brian’s guitar screaming from the barn, ripping him out of his dreamy reverie. The noise causes him to jump reflexively, almost falling off the bed. He’s more than a little surprised that he can hear it from his guest room. 

He snaps into “everything is absolutely normal” mode hurriedly, grabbing his bass in a dash toward the door. He checks a mirror on the way out. He looks at the John in the mirror and wonders why _anyone_ would want to kiss him. His hair is boring, he’s a skinny twerp, and his face is nothing special. _At all._ Even his mouth has an odd shape. Utterly and completely _boring._ Could he look any less like a glamorous rock star? He rolls his eyes with a big sigh, feeling very insecure suddenly. 

Nearly every time Queen were in the press, writers seemed to take a great thrill in pointing out how _plain_ John was compared to the rest. Not only his looks, but his role in the band as well. It always hurt him, and reading those things would cause Roger to flip his shit. He’d go on a big loud ranting row about it every time, tearing papers, shouting, throwing small objects dramatically. _Fuck this, fuck that, fuck him, fuck her,_ what have you. He’d become inconsolably angry over his friends being insulted. It wasn’t beyond the drummer to write to magazines to let them know exactly what he thought of them. His stance was firmly “fuck the press.”

Freddie avoided reading press altogether, if the subject came up in conversation he'd be on high defense and wishing his ears were plugged. However, the singer was quick to dissolve hurt feelings if they arose. He couldn’t stand (or understand) how nasty these holier than thou press people were. He saw their grim delight in tearing people down and took great offense to it. Disrespect was paramount on his list of intolerances. At first, he’d blow it off, but over time it had jaded and hardened him a bit. Queen _never_ got a break, so he decided it was best to be blissfully unaware if he could help it.

If Freddie got word of John being insulted by the press, he’d made sure to try and make the bassist forget that nastiness as quickly as possible. He’d make a total clown of himself just to pull a laugh out of him, to make him smile again. It was sweet, and something he’d always done. It was endearing and warm, and just added to the many reasons John was so fond of Freddie.

_Fond …_ he wonders how he’s going to make it through this practice with his resolve in tact. He can’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous. Sure, he said all the things Freddie probably wanted to hear, but acting on them was another thing entirely. 

_Keep it together, the hardest part is over. Act natural. It’s just Freddie._ Mantras he kept telling himself. His nerves weren’t so convinced. He wasn’t sure how he was even going to _look_ at Freddie without turning beet red.

He exits the room with a nervous curse on his lips and a flutter in his stomach.

~ ~ ~

John can hear Roger beating the devil out of his drums well before he arrives, and Brian and Freddie are so engrossed in conversation that his entrance isn’t noticed. Maybe he’s grateful for that. He quietly navigates his way through a stack of Vox AC30’s, holding his bass close to his body so as to avoid banging it into anything.

Freddie and Brian are standing with their backs turned to John, so Roger notices him first. He waves at the drummer with a meek smile. 

“Hello everybody,” he announces a bit timidly. “Err, I’m sorry I’ve been a bit of a recluse today, I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Deaky! The Deaks! Good to see you mate, are you feeling better?” Roger asks hopefully.

John nods, “Yes. I am, thank you Roger,” he smiles at the drummer, who gives him two thumbs up in return (without putting down his drumsticks).

“That’s great. We missed you! _I_ missed you. Neither of these old farts think I’m funny,” the drummer pouts. John giggles, covering his mouth.

Brian turns his attention from Freddie to the bassist, “Oh John! Thank goodness you’re okay, we were worried. Are you sure you’re up to practicing tonight?”

“I’m fine Brian, thank you. Sorry for making everyone worry, I’m okay now.” 

“Are you really? Were you sick?” 

The curly-haired man does seem awfully concerned and doesn’t seem to want to let this go until his curiosity is sated. After all, it was Brian who noticed he seemed _“off”_ the night before.

“Well, um,” a pause. “I drank too much?” John hopes that is believable. It _was_ true that he drank more than usual, but it wasn’t a lot by most people’s standards. At least, the last Brian had seen of him anyhow.

“Hmm. Is that really all it was?” He gets closer and gently puts an arm around him, continuing in a hushed voice. “John, if … there’s anything you want to talk about we’re here for you, you know. You seemed a little down last night.”

_Damn it._ John had really hoped his silly sulking had gone unnoticed. He scrunches his face. “I was a bit moody last night. I apologize.”

“Please don’t apologize. It’s just strange seeing _you_ of all people looking upset, I had a feeling something was wrong.” John remains quiet. “I just want you to know you’re not alone, and that you can always talk to us.”

“I’m really okay now, but thank you for offering.” 

“Did you talk about it with Freddie earlier?” Brian’s persistence was starting to fluster the bassist.

“I … well,” John stammers. “Err … we. Freddie made it better, yes.”

Brian stares at him questioningly, either confused or suspicious. John isn’t sure of which. He knows immediately that he could have worded that better. 

Freddie glances over to see Brian crowding John, probably pestering him for answers, and giving him a ton of moral support. John looked like he was tolerating it, though to Freddie it read as ‘politely uncomfortable’. He’d only heard a bit of their conversation but it was enough for him to feel like he had to rescue him.

“Brian! He says he’s fine, please don’t pester our sweet Deaky when he’s only just returned. It was just a hangover and a bad mood,” Freddie scolds, and John is thankful for the singer’s interjection, he can finally breathe again. The thought of them knowing the _real_ reason he wasn’t feeling well wasn’t something he was prepared to deal with. He’s embarrassed enough that they’re talking about him _at all;_ he really didn’t like this sort of coddling attention, even though he knew they had only the best of intentions. 

He makes a mental note to stop having _feelings._ The damn things have had him crying, brooding, explaining himself and making weak excuses all day. They’ve also had him all aflutter but he’s trying to take his mind off of that for the time being. What a _mess._ Feelings have got to go.

“Alright, alright. But John, if you want to stop it’s okay. Your well-being is most important. Please do not hesitate to let us know.”

“Thank you Brian, I will,” John replies sincerely, but he’s hoping that the intense scrutiny is over. He’s terrible at white lies and faking reactions.

Freddie quietly observes all of this, feeling bad that the bassist has to endure this questioning and attention, knowing that it was _his_ misunderstanding that caused every bit of the discomfort John has experienced—and is currently—experiencing. John handles it pretty well, considering. He hasn’t yet lost the meek smile he came in with. Freddie wonders if that shyness has anything to do with their conversation. The younger man still hasn’t met his eyes.

Until he does.

They both end up looking away almost immediately, and to much comedic effect. The ridiculousness of it doesn’t elude Freddie so he attempts to quash any lingering tension by walking over and just … hugging the bassist, like he normally would, under _normal_ circumstances. Though, circumstances don’t feel quite normal anymore.

“Feeling better then dear? We’re so glad to see you.” 

“Yes, thank you, and I’m glad to see you … too …” John replies. Noticing the falter in his own voice has him pushing back a sudden wave of nervous anxiety.

Freddie chuckles lightly then steps back, still holding John squarely by the shoulders. “Did you have enough to eat?” He looks like he’s holding in a funny secret and he’s about to burst from the effort. To Freddie, the stark difference between John’s boldness when they were alone compared to how bashful he was around the others is beyond amusing, and very _charming._ Adorable really.

However, John could just die. Why is Freddie like this? No subtlety at all. He hopes the others don’t see his face. Or Freddie’s ridiculous mug for that matter. Between Brian’s scrutiny and Freddie’s cheekiness, John is honestly wishing he’d stayed in his room.

“I did, thanks again Freddie.” And suddenly, their eyes are locked, and neither of them are able to look away.

“You’re welcome love, I can’t have you going hungry.” 

_Love._ Freddie’s completely routine terms of endearment sound different to him now. And he’s still got that goofy look on his face.

Freddie’s attempts of making things _less_ awkward have failed, utterly. Usually this sort of conversation would register as typical (albeit concerned) small talk, to any one of them. However, John can’t help but think it sounds like a shitty coverup. But maybe that’s the paranoia speaking. Before they know it, they’ve been standing there, staring in silence for a _noticeable_ amount of time. 

“Oi ... you two okay? Should I toss another stick?” Roger eyes them suspiciously, but he’s clearly amused. 

“Ha!” Freddie laughs wickedly and turns away on his heel, simultaneously releasing his grip on the bassist. Immediately John feels his face get hot and he’s overly aware of how dry his throat feels. Oh God. _Why._ He takes a big swig of water from _someone’s_ glass that happened to be on top of his favorite amp, then he turns his attention toward tuning his bass.

“No _Roger,_ we aren’t okay. We were about to kiss, passionately. And you dared to interrupt?” John spits out his water and coughs, feigning a laugh to mask his actual (dead embarrassed) reaction. “Honestly, the nerve of this man.” Freddie scoffs, glancing at John while ruffling his unruly bangs.

Brian shakes his head, again preparing his ears and brain for terrible things while digging around in his pocket for a sixpence he seemed to have misplaced.

“Well, if you’re gonna kiss get it over with so we can practice!” He hits a hi-hat along with his bass drum for emphasis.

“If you don’t _shut up_ I’m going to go over there and kiss _you,_ Rog.”

“Come on then, pucker up! You won’t!”

Freddie raises his notebook in a semi-threatening _‘I’m going to throw this at you’_ pose. “Are you willing to risk it dear? You’d better hold your tongue or I’ll bite it right off!”

“What’s stopping you? Come on, I know you want to kiss me Freddie!” 

“You’re so eager dear. I’m flattered, truly.”

_“Boys._ Please. Can we _please_ practice? It’ll be 3am before we’re done here tonight at this rate.” 

Sighing, the singer gets his head back in the game. “Yes yes, where were we … oh, right. Brian, please take a look at this. I need your input if you don’t mind.”

After a few minutes, Roger looks over and winks at John. Once again the bassist feels his face turning red despite his best efforts.

“Oh, shut up ... you.” John chuckles, doing his best to keep it nonchalant.

Roger it seems, is a little too perceptive. “I didn’t say shit!” he laughs. “Alright then. Let’s go over the bridge of _Death On Two?”_

“Okey.”

They quickly fall into a rhythm, working out the kinks as they went. And before long, all four of them are playing the same song. 

After an hour or so Brian thinks it’s nearly perfect, but Freddie isn’t quite sure.

He stands, twirling away from the piano and makes his way toward John. “I have an idea darling. How about you try playing this part an octave … _higher?_ I think it’ll create a nice harmonic effect.” 

Freddie presses a finger onto John’s fretboard. “Like this?” It’s not a question, but a suggestion that he’s looking for feedback on. John plucks while Freddie holds the string down behind the fret, hammering on to the next fret at the right moment. “That higher note will ride above the harmony and give it an unexpected _flair.”_ Freddie flashes his fingers to enunciate. “Don’t you think?” He cocks his head at the bassist.

John blinks, a little flustered, nodding. “Mmhmm. It’s good.” He plays it experimentally a few more times, Freddie seems pleased. “How’s that?”

“Oh it’s lovely! Yes, perfect.” With that, Freddie makes it a point to brush his hand across John’s plucking fingers. “Your fingerwork is a sight to behold darling,” the singer says under his breath, quickly turning around before any reaction can be had. John bites his lip. _Oh, he’s so very grateful that Freddie decided to turn around._

“Alright.” Freddie claps decisively. “Let’s run it through again with that addition. We can worry about isolating finicky bits later in the studio. I’m more concerned with making it through entire songs tonight.”

Brian nods. “I agree. We should try and get three down solidly enough tonight. It doesn’t have to be tight yet, we just need foundations for now.”

“I’m fairly confident with _Death_ and _Sweet Lady._ How about we work out some harmonies in _Prophet’s_?” the singer suggests. 

“Oh shit, we’ll be here all night!” Roger whines, rolling his snare. “That song is soooo long. Let’s see if we can make it through these two songs without a hitch first then see how we feel, yeah?” 

Brian nods thoughtfully, then turns around. “John, are you holding up well enough?” he asks, genuinely concerned.

“Yes, quite. I can go all night.”

Freddie raises his eyebrows, not saying a word.

~ ~ ~

Five hours on and Freddie is feeling utterly exhausted, but they’d hit a good groove so it hadn’t fully registered yet. 

Suddenly, inner conflict arises. It’s just dawned on Freddie how late it is, how tired his body is, and … that _other thing._ He’s done his best to stay focused and keep his cool all night but inside he feels like jelly, complete with the sting of citric acid. 

Every time he allows his mind to wander he can hardly keep his breathing under control. Thoughts of John touching him run rampant like electric wildfire just under his skin, honestly it’s getting tedious trying to keep these mental images out of his head while he’s in the company of others. But it’s like a drug, he can’t stop. He’s completely at the mercy of his intimate ideations.

“Whewww, I think I’m done for tonight boys. My arms and vocal chords are trashed. Also I’m hungry. And it’s hot.” Roger is sweating quite a bit despite having removed his shirt hours ago. He stands up and stretches grandly, his vision goes out temporarily from the effort. After a minute or so of useless rubbing and blinking, it returns to normal.

“Good work tonight everyone,” Brian says cheerfully, looking satisfied. “I’m hungry too.”

“There’s gotta be a pub open still, somewhere. It’s only midnight.”

_“Only_ midnight?” Freddie snort laughs. “Roger, do you know where we are? We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Shit.” Roger hisses, standing over the cooler and cracking open a beer. Brian and John follow suite. Three beers had never been consumed so quickly in the history of man. Practicing in a musty humid barn has them all parched, except Freddie, who’d been drinking from a pitcher of water for hours.

They’re all busily straightening up, putting cords, gadgets and notes away. Freddie grabs his jacket from atop the piano then sits down on the bench waiting for the others, tapping a foot nervously. “We’re all hungry then it seems. So, _who_ feels like cooking?”

“What do we even have _to_ cook? Asks Brian. 

“Oh I haven’t the foggiest idea, darling.”

“We have bread .. and potatoes. And spaghetti?” John replies. 

Roger suddenly has a delicious thought. “Let’s make cookies.” 

“Let’s make spaghetti _and_ cookies, Brian suggests. Everyone seems to agree.

“I’ll help in the kitchen, Brian.” offers John.

“Me too!” Pipes Roger. He burps, presumably from the beer. “I can cook.”

“Okay, you two can make spaghetti I assume? I’ll handle the baking.”

John and Roger look at each other, shrugging. “We’ll figure it out,” says the drummer. John laughs. He hasn’t exactly made it _known_ that he can cook a few things.

“Can you manage boiling water?” Brian looks exasperated.

“Fuck you! Of course we can make spaghetti. Right John?” 

The bassist just smiles, nodding.

Roger lights up a cigarette and hands it to Freddie. “Oh, thank you dear, that’s just what I needed.” 

Roger nods, lighting one for himself. “Welcome. We’ll have to get more tomorrow.” 

The boys slowly trudge across the damp lawn back toward the farmhouse, weary but feeling good and accomplished. Roger hangs back, taking John by the arm, leaning in close to tell him something in private, it seems.

_“Deaky._ Hey … why did the semen cross the road?”

“Oh dear God,” he laughs, _“Why_ Roger?”

“Because I put on the wrong sock this morning!” Roger jumps around, mouth agape, clapping at his joke.

“Ewww, I hate that I believe you!” John snorts laughing.

Freddie’s single guffaw is so loud it causes a nearby bird to fly off in fright. “You’ve got to start picking up those renegade socks by the way, dear. Do you think anyone here doesn’t understand what a _crunchy_ sock suggests?” 

Roger’s face goes pale. “What? Where did I leave a sock!? Did you find one Freddie?”

Freddie nearly falls over laughing. “Oh dear _lord_ , Roger! I was only joking. But you win, you’ve actually managed to disgust me.” 

“Ha! Yeah ... I was just joking too,” He inhales deeply from his cigarette while rolling his eyes.

“You are just the _worst.”_ Freddie laughs, clapping his leg out of sheer amusement.

Brian wishes himself into another dimension, but John and Freddie can’t stop snickering at Roger’s sudden loss for words.

Roger and Freddie linger outside leaning against the farmhouse, chatting and finishing their cigarettes. John decides to hang out and listen to their funny banter. 

“Got any jokes Deaky?” asks the drummer.

“Mmmm, yes actually,” he says with an amused grin. Freddie and Roger are instantly rapt with attention waiting to hear it. “My friend says to me, ‘What Rhymes with orange?’ And I told him, ‘No it doesn’t.’” 

Silence. John starts laughing, he’s doubled over. He cannot believe these two don’t get it.

“How is that a joke?” Roger demands. “What’s so funny!?”

Freddie lets loose a yell, finally understanding. “Oh my God. That’s so _stupid!_ I love it.” He sidles up next to the bassist, casually laying his arm around his shoulders. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. But … things will never _really_ be ordinary again, John supposes.

“Fuck the joke! What’s up with you two? Are you seriously like …,” Roger stalls, taking a drag, “kissing? I mean. It’s none of my business but you’re acting so strange.”

Much to John’s chagrin, his eyes betray him, blowing wide. He hopes Freddie comes up with … something. _Oh God, please, please say something ridiculous Freddie._

“Well not yet, dear.” He’s still giggling from the joke, and Roger not getting it. “You two won’t bugger off. We haven’t had time to properly do it.” He takes a big drag off his cigarette, then just looks on at Roger, completely deadpan. Somehow he manages to look casual, no matter what the topic.

Roger looks completely horrified, and confused. As does John. John rubs his forehead, this entire day has been nothing short of a mental gauntlet for him. 

Freddie exhales. When he speaks, smoke is still wafting out from between his teeth. _“What?_ Oh my God, how long do we have to be friends for you to understand when I’m taking the piss Roger?” 

John does three things simultaneously here; he closes his eyes, raises his eyebrows, and lets go of the breath he was holding. 

Roger slaps Freddie on the upper arm. “Shut up! I’m gullible and I know it. In any case it’s not as if I’d _care._ I was just curious. I like knowing the gossip.”

“You’ll be the first to know about my conquests with Deaky, my dear. I promise.” John is sincerely fucking thankful that it’s dark out because he can feel the blood leave his face. Freddie grins coquettishly, knowing exactly what this is doing to the bassist.

“Freddie, _please.”_ John is laughing, but it’s also obvious he’s dreadfully embarrassed. Freddie knows when he’s being an obnoxious ass, he decides to tone it down a bit for John’s sake.

Roger cannot help but notice that John is weirdly agreeable during this whole _joke._ He doesn’t buy it for even a second.

They all laugh it off and head inside, and John explains his joke to Roger along the way. 

Freddie still hasn’t removed his arm from around John as they head in. Despite how mortifying this experience had been, _and_ despite Freddie’s arm pulling uncomfortably on a section of his hair, the sweet simple physicality of the gesture makes John feel like he’s glowing, but in the good way. Freddie just had a knack for making him feel … _wanted,_ and honestly, that is a very new and very pleasant feeling for him.

When they enter the house, Roger _discreetly_ does a visual survey for any socks lying about. He can’t be held accountable for what he does when he’s drunk. Who knows where his socks might end up?

~ ~ ~

The boys (minus Freddie) pile into the kitchen, making quite a ruckus. 

“I’ll be out here darlings, one of you let me know when I can eat!” Freddie announces. 

No reply. They’re all too busy bantering in the kitchen to hear him … or so it seems. John had heard him but he didn’t want to interrupt Brian waxing poetically about _perfectly_ cooked spaghetti. He makes a mental note.

Freddie lays on the couch in the living room, his eyes are so heavy … what a long day it had been. A quick rest couldn’t hurt while the others were cooking. 

_Shit._

Of course, his mind instantly goes _there_ again. Maybe he should just take a cold shower and forego this impromptu nap. He sighs emphatically. Freddie had been holding out hope that John would pull him aside and ravage him right there in the sweaty barn. Or afterwards, against the side of the farmhouse. His mind is clouded with _what-ifs_ and missed opportunities. 

John had seemed a little standoffish, a bit more quiet than usual. Freddie supposed he was feeling nervous because of earlier, and moreso, what was anticipated after practice. That would be understandable, he rationalizes. _Understandable,_ but it still makes the singer worry that their plans might fall through.

Freddie rolls onto his side so he can frown and scowl, where nobody but the cushions can see it. He holds a paisley patterned pillow to his chest, analyzing his anxiety and various bad feelings. Maybe he’d prodded John too harshly with all the suggestive wisecracking? _Oh no. Have I fucked up again? Two nights in a row?_ Furrowing his brow, he sighs and gives in to sleep.

In the kitchen Brian’s got a spoon in a jar of peanut butter, plopping heaps of it into a measuring cup. He’d planned on making simple sugar cookies but John suggested peanut butter cookies, and really, his enthusiasm about it tickled Brian, he simply couldn’t deny him. Especially since it seemed that John had been feeling a bit down lately.

The bassist had his nose in the cupboard, searching for marinara sauce. Eventually he found it, tucked away behind a tall container of lard. The expiration date on the sauce was _questionably_ close _._ Like, _yesterday_ close. He decided not to mention it.

“It’s boiling, finally.” Roger says, breaking the spaghetti in half and fanning it into the pot. Brian sees the act of spaghetti debauchery and tells himself that this is a battle he’s actively choosing not to pick.

John brings the sauce over to the counter. “Here you go.”

“Alright, I think I’ve got it from here Deaky. Why don’t you go take a load off?” Roger is all about making John feel better too, it turns out.

“Thanks, Roger,” the bassist smiles, “Call me in if you need help.” 

“It’ll only take a few minutes!” 

“I must admit, Roger, I am a little surprised you know how to make _spaghetti,”_ snarks Brian. 

Roger snorts. “For an astrophysicist you sure are a _prat_ sometimes Brian, I swear.” 

“But I’m making cookies. _Prats_ don’t make cookies for their friends.” 

“I suppose you’ve got a point but you’re on thin ice, Major Tom,” Roger fake glares at him, shaking a spatula. He goes back to stirring the salty spaghetti water, obnoxiously humming _Space Oddity._

The guitarist chuckles. “I’m not an astronaut any more than you are a dentist.”

Roger cups a hand to his ear, “What’s that? Ground control can’t hear you, prat!”

“Ha!” Brian mixes the dough, folding it in on itself until it reaches the right consistency. Thankfully they’d had enough sugar. He arranged twenty four lumps of it onto two thin, warped cookie sheets. Six cookies each _should_ be enough. He knew damn well that was wishful thinking. But, they were now out of peanut butter and sugar, it was the only option.

~ ~ ~

It had only been approximately fifteen minutes but Freddie had already fallen fast asleep on the couch. John couldn’t help but take note of how tiny he looked there, legs drawn up, clutching a pillow.

John sneaks off to his bedroom quietly, deciding that Freddie needed a blanket. He knew there were _at least_ forty of them at the foot of his bed. Freddie’s tiny tank top and even tinier terry shorts were hardly sufficient to provide enough warmth for his slight and very exposed frame. The ratio of skin to fabric was quite skewed in skin’s favor.

John retrieved a cotton blanket, thinking it’d be better suited than a wool one or a thick quilt. He wanted Freddie to be warm, not to sweat.

_But then again ..._

Second guessing himself, he runs back and gets a quilt too, just in case.

Freddie barely stirs when John carefully covers him with the lighter of the two blankets. 

“Freddie,” John whispers, kneeling down next to him. “Freddie … the food will be done any minute now, if you’re hungry.” The bassist gently puts a hand on his back, rubbing back and forth lightly. 

Freddie, however, is out cold. 

John’s light, persistent caresses eventually stir him. He rolls onto his other side with a soft grunt, and now, suddenly, they’re face to face. John initially freezes up, having no idea what to do, until he realizes that Freddie is no more awake than he had been before.

Freddie asked for someone to alert him when the food was done. Should he wake him? Let him be? 

_Touch_ him?

The thought of it gives him goosebumps.

God. How _dare_ Freddie be so beautiful and just _lie_ there like a dream come true right in front of him. John’s heart rate spikes. _Oh,_ how badly he wants to … just … do all sorts of _precious_ things to the singer right now. Like take his picture, and treasure it forever for instance.

He swallows audibly, feeling his conviction breaking all around him. He _must_ touch him. There was no way he could restrain this wanton selfish need. He just looked so _vulnerable_ and sweet.

With the lightest of touches, he pushes aside a few stray locks framing Freddie’s face. First on his forehead, then down and across his cheekbone. His skin is so _soft._ He slides a lock of hair behind the singer’s ear, but it causes his bangs to fall back into his face.

John is sure he’s going to faint. The sight alone is angelic enough to make him forget to breathe.

He trails the backs of his fingers across and down his face, and finds himself tracing the singer’s lips with slightly shaky fingers. _Fuck_ , they’re so soft. His mind races, it must be trying to catch up with his heartbeat. He very gently pulls a thumb across Freddie’s bottom lip and it causes his lips to part, _just_ slightly.

_What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing._ Internally John is bursting. Tipping his head back, he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, searching for some clarity amid the fluttering chaos in his mind.

Unbeknownst to John, one of those _‘What am I doing’_ s was spoken out loud, subconsciously.

And John doesn’t see it happen, as his eyes are closed and he’s living out a moral dilemma inside his head, but suddenly Freddie has gently captured the hand that was tracing his lips. He intertwines their fingers and softly kisses John’s knuckles. 

His eyes snap open. “I … F-Freddie,” 

“Indeed. What _are_ you doing, sweetheart?” Freddie smiles, whispering across his knuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is enjoying this! I'm having too much fun writing them ♥ And I'm dreadfully sorry they haven't managed to make out yet. Thanks a lot for the lovely comments, I really appreciate it!
> 
> And- I haven't been involved in any musical endeavors for years, so I'm sure some of my terminology is wrong, but, I doubt any of you are here for that lmao :^)


	4. Chapter 4

“Sorry … Freddie … I—,” John stammers. He’s been caught red-handed, and the captor literally hasn’t let go of his hand. He winces, scrunching his face in total embarrassment.

Freddie chuckles quietly, raising an eyebrow. “What _ever_ are you apologizing for darling?” John swallows, blinking. He’s hoping his heart rate returns to normal soon. “This was a lovely surprise to wake up to, I assure you.”

John smiles and bites his lip, still not quite able to look Freddie in the eye. At least he’s able to breathe again. “I’m … very glad to hear it.”

“Sweetheart, look at me.” Freddie lightly strokes his cheek, until John’s eyes finally meet his gaze. “Are you nervous?” The singer’s expression is so soft and warm, John instantly feels a bit more comfortable.

He nods. “Yes, a little bit. Um, I don’t … know … _why._ It’s not as if we didn’t talk about … things.” He feels that familiar blush creeping across his features.

_“I_ know why, dear.” His voice is like velvet; soft and luxurious. He pauses, inhaling deeply. “A first kiss is a very special thing, and I’m sure you want it to be as perfect as I do.” Freddie raises his eyebrows, grinning. “Right?” The bassist could melt. Even Freddie’s simple smiles were precious, they accentuated his dimples so nicely.

“Yes … I can’t stop thinking about it.” John responds meekly, exhaling a shaky breath.

Freddie smiles fondly, squeezing his hand. The shadow of a devilish thought crosses his facial features. “You could’ve so easily ravished me right here, you know.” His words are low, nearly a mumbled growl.

“Oh, Freddie.” He chuckles, “I wouldn’t have ... ever.” 

Freddie bites his lip, incidentally pinning down a bigger grin. “I know you wouldn’t have, sweetheart,” he whispers, reaching to push a lock of hair behind John’s ear. “Just as I wouldn’t have taken advantage of you while you were tipsy. I knew you were flirting with me, but I didn’t know if it was the alcohol or … something more.” He continues to run his hand through the bassist’s hair. John relaxes into his touch, melding into his caress so naturally. “God _knows_ I wanted to kiss you last night.”

Freddie’s words immobilize him, causing him to pull in a deep breath. 

After a moment lost in reverie, he’s able to reply. “I wish you would have,” John smiles, grasping the singer’s hand and bringing it to his lips. He gives Freddie’s forefinger a soft bite. If not for the prurient look in his eyes it could almost be considered _demure._ “This, um … _anticipation,_ is unbearable.” John whispers, definitely staring at Freddie’s lips.

The act takes Freddie completely off guard, causing his breath to catch in his throat. “You’re telling _me,_ dear.” His smile melts away, all of his playfulness evaporating into something much more focused and carnal. He’s already completely flustered. _“John_ darling, you’re really too much. You know what this is doing to me, right?”

The bassist glances toward the floor for a moment out of shyness. When he lifts his eyes again to meet Freddie’s, it’s as if something in him has shifted. The singer knows this look. _Lust._ The brand of lust that lurks just beyond the edge of trepidation and refuses to be ignored. John trembles, trying to contain it, just as Freddie trembles with anticipation.

“Come on, Freddie. Let’s ... go to my room.” His gaze is intense, full of need and intention. Freddie swears he can see the wanton sensuality emanating off of the younger man in a lofty wispy aura.

John is normally very reserved, shy even, about voicing his desires. But _something_ about Freddie makes him _ravenous_ for touch, for taste, for textures, for sound. He wants a full experience, and he wants much more than he could put into words. 

Words are a terrible thing, never quite right or quite enough. The english variety of them, at least.

The gaze between them is impenetrable, it drowns out _everything._

“Are you cer—,” Freddie attempts.

_“Hey,_ Romeo and Romeo! My world class spaghetti is done!” Roger may as well have banged the pots and pans together, it would’ve been less jarring.

“The cookies will be done in 10 minutes, too.” Brian adds.

Freddie lays his head back dramatically against the couch cushion with a rather loud, amused chuckle. 

John unleashes an exasperated groan. “Alright ... be right there,” he shouts toward the kitchen in a monotonous tone, smiling at Freddie despite his annoyance. This was starting to feel like evading parents. He worried they might ask him to keep his door open next.

“Fuck.” Freddie laughs, defeatedly. “How am I going to hide this damned erection?” 

“Seriously?” John whispers. “Just from _that?”_ Freddie raises his eyebrows and blinks, as if what he’d said was irrational. “Don’t answer, I’ll bring you a plate Freddie,” John giggles, trying to fight back another round of furious blushing.

“Honestly darling, this is your fault. You shouldn’t have _bit_ me, it got me thinking about all sorts of mischievous things.”

_“Freddie!”_ John smacks his shoulder playfully, standing up. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Thank you sweetie.” He gazes languidly at John’s figure retreating into the kitchen. How many times had he looked at the bassist’s ass as he walked off somewhere? _What a ridiculous thought,_ he chides himself. 

He thinks back on these new developments, feeling a warm, unfamiliar sense of peace. After all this time. _Really_ … him and John? Could it happen? Lust is one thing but where would this plausibly go? He shakes his head, not wanting to needlessly worry about _future shit_ right now.

Freddie sits up, stretching grandly. He hastily places a pillow in his lap then wraps the cotton blanket around his shoulders. He smiles, thinking of how it was sweet of John to bring him warmth in the form of blankets. Freddie had already decided not to give them back (unless _asked,_ of course). The one draped around his shoulders smelled like John’s shampoo, and that smell filled him with wonderful feelings.

He tries to think horrible thoughts to will his nuisance of a boner away. _Bad pieces of chicken. Brian. Simon Ferocious. Denim. Finding Roger’s condoms. Politics. Stepping in shit._

Within seconds, Freddie can already tell those cursed ideas are helping his problem. He sighs gratefully with relief. He should’ve seen this coming, it’s not as if they didn’t know a meal was being prepared.

They’d both become so wrapped up in each other it had somehow been forgotten.

~ ~ ~ 

“How is it so damned late?” Roger ponders aloud, twirling a fork into his perfectly cooked (in his opinion) _al dente_ spaghetti.

John glances at the grandfather clock, somehow it’s already close to 1am. His eyes go wide. He’d slept in pretty late so it wasn’t really an issue for him, but there wasn’t much time left for _extracurricular_ activities and he knew it. He silently hoped Freddie’s fifteen minute nap would keep the singer awake for a while.

Brian brings out a platter of cookies and hopes that everyone will only take their share. He sighs, “I don’t know but today has been very long. I can’t wait to go to sleep.” 

“Thank you for the food, you two,” John says, simultaneously smiling and stuffing a cookie into his mouth. He takes more than six, and _yes,_ Brian _is_ counting. 

Brian nods patiently. Another battle he’s choosing not to pick.

“Anything for the best bassist ever!” Roger smiles at him with spaghetti poking through his teeth gaps and John can’t help but laugh.

“I’m surprised it’s as good as it is, Rog.” Brian says.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You ass.” 

“It’s a compliment!” 

“Oh fuck off and stuff your compliment. You’re just too proud to admit I’m a good cook.” 

Brian chuckles. “It really is good, Roger, thank you.”

Freddie is scarfing down his food in a mad rush and doesn’t seem to hear the bickering. Nobody seems to pick up on that aside from John. 

John had eaten a lot later than the others so he wasn’t quite ravenous, aside from peanut butter cookies, of course. He ate a small portion of spaghetti to be polite, but was mostly interested in dessert, and hopefully … other dessert. 

The four happily eat in silence for a bit. Mostly deep in thought and quite knackered.

“Deaky! _Shit!_ I just remembered,” Roger leaps from the loveseat and sprints to his room. Freddie and John glance at each other, mildly bewildered and impressed with his form. The drummer returns moments later delicately grasping a glossy folded image. “Here—I wanted to give you this poster, I thought you’d like it.” He hands John the poster then vaults over the back of the couch to sit next to him.

John opens the centerfold from the car magazine and laughs, “Ha! Thank you Roger, it’s great.” 

“I knew you’d like it.” He grins. “We were just talking about this model last week.”

“I want one!” John admires the vehicle with glittering eyes. “In blue,” he mumbles mostly to himself.

“I want a Rolls Royce!” Freddie exclaims out of nowhere.

“What for, Fred? You don’t even drive!” Brian chides.

“Oh _please_ don’t tell me you wouldn’t want a Rolls, Brian. Whether it was driven or not.”

Brian considers his words, being objective, but still rather pedantic in his own head. Before he has a chance to open his mouth on the subject again, Freddie gets up and stretches his arms above his head. “Thank you for cooking, dears, I was starving.” 

“No problem Fred,” Roger replies. “Take my plate to the kitchen?” 

“Certainly dear.”

Suddenly, Freddie finds himself responsible for hustling _all_ of the plates back to the kitchen. He holds his tongue but wants very badly to bitch about it.

“I’ll … help Freddie,” John offers a bit awkwardly, scuttling off.

“Okay boys, I’m going to bed,” Brian gets up decisively, scratching his head and yawning. “You kids behave, alright?”

“Goodnight _father,”_ Freddie replies sarcastically. John waves him goodnight from the doorframe of the kitchen.

“Just go lay down old man, nobody cares!” Roger gripes. Brian rolls his eyes in response and promptly disappears into the velvety darkness of the hallway. “Actually, I’m going to sleep too, after a smoke.” 

Freddie nearly runs back outside to join Roger in a last smoke for the night but decides that it wouldn’t be a great idea for now. In case, you know. Something like _kissing_ were to occur.

~ ~ ~

Freddie and John diligently wash dishes mostly in giddy silence as they wait for the others to retreat to their rooms. Roger briefly stops by the kitchen to wish them goodnight.

“You two got this?”

“Yes _yes,_ go on to bed!” Freddie scoffs. 

“Yeah, we’ll see. You two use a condom.” He snickers and attempts to get away but Freddie’s aim was true. He hits him square in the back with a soapy sponge.

“Oh _fuck off!”_ Freddie laughs at him. “Blowjobs don’t require _condoms_ Roger!”

“Shut UP! Oh _God!_ Goodnight!” He slams his door, not wanting to hear another word out of Freddie. The singer guffaws and doubles over laughing, triumphant.

John can’t even laugh, he’s blushing too hard. He knows Freddie was just trying to “win” the shouting match, but hearing that out loud was … something else entirely.

Freddie is still chuckling and teary eyed when he returns to the kitchen. He notices that John is studiously quiet, washing the silverware as if it’s terribly fascinating. “John, sweetie … I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable, I couldn’t allow Roger to think he’d left me speechless. I hope you understand.”

John clears his throat with a slight giggle. “It’s okay Freddie, it was funny.” 

He _says._

His reddened face betrays him and can only be read as completely and utterly flustered. And more importantly, seemingly not averse to the suggestion.

“Hmmm, are you _sure?”_ The singer struts over to John, wrapping his arms around his shoulders from behind. “Was it _funny?”_ He rests his chin on John’s shoulder with a goofy grin on his face.

John slowly turns his head to look at him. “Freddie …,”

“Mmm?” He raises his eyebrows at the bassist, expectantly. A single incisor is visible from behind his upper lip.

John swallows hard, his heart is suddenly beating so fast he can’t think straight. He’s wasting a ton of water now, struck speechless and oblivious. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Freddie smiles at him (displaying all his teeth this time, whether he meant to or not) and that’s all it takes to snap him back to reality. John swallows hard, turning the water off and drying his hands in a calculated, measured manner.

John turns around, meeting his gaze. Freddie’s arms drop to his side as he turns, and John gently takes him by the wrists. “Fuck the dishes.” The smile fades from the singer’s face. His expression is unreadable and he visibly swallows. “Come with me?”

The singer blinks, nodding. “Y-yes,” He _wants_ to say something flirty or coy but finds himself feeling stunned and speechless as John wastes no time leading him through the living room and down the dark hallway.

~ ~ ~

As soon as they cross the threshold, John closes the door until the latch clicks into place with a soft clink. It’s very pleasant in John’s guest room—cool and dark, smelling vaguely of mild patchouli and wildflowers. The only light is a seashell-covered nightlight illuminating warmth discreetly in a corner.

Freddie can hardly believe it but he’s _actually_ legitimately nervous. It must be a product of all this putting-it-off business. He can’t remember the last time that the prospect of romance made him feel and act so silly and shy. He swallows, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something _ridiculous._ He’s become overly aware that he’s blinking nervously. _Had he always done that?_ He can’t remember right now.

The silence is heavy. It envelops them like an emperor’s blanket.

John isn’t sure whether to talk or just .. _go for it._ He takes a breath, steeling himself. Freddie really just _does_ something to him, it’s indescribable really. He’s simply intoxicating and John finds himself saying and _doing_ things he’d never think imaginable while in his proximity.

He turns around to face the singer, but Freddie is already narrowing that gap, leaving no room for further procrastination, and honestly, making this less awkward for John. 

Freddie smiles coyly, taking John’s hands and putting them on his hips, while wrapping his own around the bassist’s neck, being careful not to trap his soft brown hair. They just look at each other, silently smiling and looking into each other’s eyes for a beat.

The bassist can’t contain himself any longer. “Can … I?”

“Can you _what,_ dear?” Freddie smiles.

John knows he could (and perhaps _should)_ give him shit for being cocky at a time like this, but he chooses instead to smirk, giving him a half-lidded and quite unsubtle glance. “Can I _kiss_ you?”

_“Please,”_ Freddie breathes out, his grin is radiant even in the dark.

“Mmm hmhm,” John chuckles. “Alright, but we’re doing this my way … if that’s okay with you.”

Freddie’s eyes widen, “John! ... I’m impressed, you’ve put thought into this.” 

“Ohhhh,” He scratches his head and lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Much more than you can imagine, Freddie.” 

“Oh, my … have you really?” Freddie bites his lip then lets out a bigger than intended laugh. He lifts his arms theatrically and poses, “Well then, yes of course, put me _however_ you want me dear.” He dramatically tosses his head back in submission, direly hoping that John take full advantage.

“Freddie! You’re making this so difficult!” He laughs, moving his hand to his face out of embarrassment.

“Okay … okay, I’m sorry darling,” Freddie gently removes John’s hands from his face. “Tell me what you want … please.” He’s softly urging him with the most earnest and endearing expression. John feels a familiar flutter in his chest rising. He can’t imagine how he could be any more fond of Freddie than he already is, and yet … he keeps surprising himself.

“C-can you … lie down?” Freddie’s eyes blow wide with shock at the bassist’s boldness. “Errr, I want it to be … romantic … you know?”

“Oh no dear—please don’t explain, I like a man who knows exactly what he wants.” Freddie turns around to lie down on his back, propping his head up with a pillow against the headboard. He’s grateful it’s a bit dark because he’s blushing wildly.

Before he knows it, John is already crawling toward him from across the bed. His breath hitches in his throat with anticipation.

Freddie can’t believe it, but John wastes no time to carefully straddle him, then gently lowers himself so their faces are only inches apart. He hovers above Freddie, his hair creating a dusky and soft curtain around them both. 

“I want you, Freddie,” Leaves his mouth on shaky breath. Every hair on his body is standing on end, he’s trembling slightly.

“Kiss me,” Freddie says, breathlessly, he feels like he’s teetering on a knife’s edge.

John caresses his cheek, gazing at his breathtakingly beautiful friend, fully appreciating the gravity of this moment. He’s completely loving how desperate the singer looks, knowing that that same desperation must be mirrored by himself. 

He leans in, brushing his lips first across Freddie’s jawline, then his chin, his movements slow and deliberate. The singer’s stubble is rough and the sensation causes the younger man to shiver.

Freddie’s breath rushes out of him in a low groan at the feeling. _“Oh my God,”_ Freddie is nearly incoherent with need and anticipation. His nerves have the better of him, his chin is quivering slightly and he can’t seem to catch his breath. He wraps his arms around the bassist in an effort to ground himself.

There, in the soft and silent dark, John’s timid lips gently find Freddie’s. It’s slow and soft. The softest thing imaginable. They wrap into each other, held breaths finally released. 

John finds himself unable (and unwilling) to fully close his eyes. He marvels at Freddie, breathless and quivering beneath him. His insides feel soft, almost like a drunkenness … his head swims. This can’t be real, this can’t be finally happening, can it? Freddie’s lips are so soft and warm. He buries his hand in Freddie’s hair and it causes the singer to groan. The vibrations are felt by John and seem to shoot straight through him.

Freddie is lost in the simple seduction, eyes closed, mouth open, unmoving. Just breathing hard. He looks utterly orgasmic, he’s cherishing every nuance of this exchange and the sight is nearly unbearably beautiful. John keeps their kiss soft and innocent, overcome with the reality that he’s finally kissing Freddie’s beautiful lips … he swears it’s happening in slow motion. The intimacy is intoxicating. It feels like music. It feels … _right._

John had never kissed another man and wasn’t entirely confident in the endeavor, or the delivery. All he knew for sure was that he’d been daydreaming of this for a very long time and did not want to botch their first kiss. His relief at seeing how much Freddie seemed to be enjoying it was enormous. Freddie’s expression seemed to mirror how John felt inside. Indescribable, perfect.

John hesitantly breaks their kiss to gauge Freddie’s reaction before adrenaline and lust threaten to take away any more of his self control. 

“Was … that okay?” He whispers, pushing his hair off of Freddie’s cheek.

Freddie’s eyes flutter open, he nods. “It was perfect, love,” he says quietly with a big exhale and equally big smile.

“Was it?” 

“Yes darling ... please do it again, I want more.” With that he tightens his grip around John’s back, urging him to bring his lips closer and kiss him again. “I _need_ more.”

“Hold on Freddie,” he giggles and places a light kiss on his nose.

The singer whines below him. John settles onto Freddie, relaxing against him with his full weight. “Sweetheart, if you don’t kiss me like you _mean_ it, I’m going to take matters into my own hands. Or mouth. Whatever, you know what I mean.”

John laughs. “Freddie please! I’m right here, we’re doing this, there’s no rush.” Freddie struggles below him, trying to kiss him comically with reaching lips, but he’s trapped. “Your desperation _is_ adorable though.”

_“My_ desperation!” He scoffs. “You’re the one telling tales of _desperately_ wanting to kiss _me._ Where is all that fervor now, darling?”

“You’re ridiculous Freddie,” John smiles. He dares to roll his hips against the man trapped below him, eliciting a soft, needy whine from the singer. “I just wanted … to make sure you’re still okay with this.”

“You’re a real devil … you know that?” he exhales in a growly whisper. His natural inclination is to continue joking but he can’t find it in himself. John’s subtle but deliberate seduction already has him rapt and ecstatic, and hardly nothing has happened. It’s overwhelmingly charming and endearing to Freddie.

“Well, are you?” He snickers, snaking a hand into Freddie’s hair and placing soft kisses on his neck while the singer writhes and giggles below him. “Say it, Freddie,” he whispers the words against his heavy pulse.

He shivers. “Fuck. Yes. _Please._ Take me, do whatever you want. I _assure_ you I want it too.”

After a litany of soft reactionary kisses to the singer’s neck, John props himself up on an elbow to look at Freddie for a moment, his hand still nestled in the singer’s soft black hair. He brings his free hand up to gently trace his jawline, then his lips. Freddie exhales a ragged breath, barely able to contain himself. He roughly runs his hands down John’s back, taking a firm grip on his ass, grinding against his body. 

The bassist lets out a deep groan and bites his lip in response. Freddie then takes two of his fingers into his mouth and gently licks the undersides, looking into John’s eyes.

“Fuck,” John sharply exhales, his heart beating so wildly it’s nearly in his throat. Freddie’s erotic finger licking has him rolling his eyes back in sheer ecstasy. The bassist can feel himself getting hard, his pants are getting uncomfortable. Feeling the heat of Freddie’s bulge against his own, separated only by two layers of cloth is almost too much for him. He can’t help but notice just how _large_ Freddie’s bulge felt, rubbing against his own. He’d seen it plenty of times over the years in dozens of tempting, sparkling outfits. But, it wasn’t usually fully hard.

With a juicy sucking noise Freddie frees his fingers, causing the man above him to shudder. John swallows back a gasp against his own breath. He’s never felt so completely and utterly self-indulgently seduced. John hovers above the panting singer, his wet lips and parted mouth gleaming in the darkness. 

“Jesus Freddie ... you’re fucking beautiful,” he manages to whisper breathlessly, before crushing his lips against the singer’s. A decadent hum escapes Freddie’s throat and the sound urges John to kiss him deeper. Freddie responds voraciously, licking hard into the bassist’s mouth, rubbing his tongue against John’s. It soon becomes reckless and desperate … all teeth, lips and slick heat. Neither of them can get enough of each other.

After forty-five minutes of this wildly luxurious and rampant wet kissing, they are able to separate and make words for the first time.

“Wow,” is all John can muster, propped on an elbow, he looks down at the singer fondly.

Freddie laughs and pulls him down to kiss and suck on his neck. The bassist giggles. _“Wow?”_ Freddie asks between licks and kisses to his throat. “Is that all you’ve got dear? Are you that amazed by my legendary kissing skills?” 

“I … err … well, yes maybe so,” he grins. Freddie’s soft lips on his neck tickle, it’s torture. “I’m quite … out of words right now, Freddie.”

“I hope that’s a good thing, dear,” he murmurs against his neck. 

“It is. You’re … really good.” John punctuates the sentiment with a low moan, feeling Freddie suddenly suck hard on his neck just below his jaw. The proximity to his ear has him hearing every breath and wet movement of Freddie’s tongue, it sounds so obscenely sensual it’s nearly overwhelming.

The singer laughs, finding his way back to John’s lips. He kisses him gently. “John dear, can I ask you something?”

“Yes, of course Freddie.”

“Has your fantasy been fulfilled?”

“I’m sorry, what?” John looks at him a bit confused.

“You know, you wanted to kiss me, _‘your way’._ Did it go how you wanted or is there more to this?”

Freddie’s bluntness causes a lump to rise in John’s throat. He attempts swallowing it back. 

“It was perfect Freddie …,” he hesitates. 

“But?” Freddie teases him, kissing his neck again softly. “Clearly you’ve got something on your mind sweetheart,” his soft lips flutter seductively against the bassist’s throat with every syllable.

John blushes hard. His lips have been rendered raw from all the kissing and stubble rubbed against them over the past hour but he finds himself biting at it again. Nothing as trivial as lip pain is going to stop him though, of course.

“Kiss me, Freddie .. please.”

“Are you relinquishing control?” Freddie separates his mouth from John’s neck to look at him. His big smile leaves no uncertainty in Freddie’s mind. He feels a bit of relief, observing for a minute how radiant and _pretty_ John looks hovering above him. He’s simply beautiful. Freddie is temporarily awestruck, and the warm glow of the nightlight agrees. It catches in his hair and sharpens his statuesque features. 

John laughs, suddenly self aware and blushing, “Yes, yes. Just shut up and kiss me.”

“Can I do more than that, dear? Do you mind if I get on top?”

“Freddie …” 

“Oh, my goodness ... I’m so sorry, I hope that isn’t too much to—”

“No, oh God no,” he cuts him off. “It’s not that … I just,” He stumbles on his words. “It’s hard to put into words Freddie.”

“Try, dear.” 

John really wants to but can’t quite put it into words. He doesn’t know how to say that Freddie could literally do anything to him and he’d be into it.

He scrunches his nose in embarrassment. “I don’t want to _say_ it … I’d rather you just … understand,” Freddie gives him a funny, confused look and laughs. “Without words.”

“John dear, how do you—”

“Shh.” John leans in and covers Freddie’s mouth with his own, kissing him deeply. It catches the singer off guard. He’s surprised but offers no protest, his lips finding themselves melding a little too effortlessly into John’s. The bassist’s hand slips under Freddie’s tank top, indulgently groping and caressing his chest. The hair on his chest is softer than expected, gently curling around and tickling his fingers. Freddie groans into his mouth with a certain delighted approval. John pushes the star-spangled fabric of his shirt up to access more of him with his mouth.

“Unnnh ... _shit.”_ His voice wavers and breaks with a soft moan. “ _Gods_ yes that feels so good,” John’s tongue finds its way to Freddie’s nipple. He licks and sucks at it gently, Freddie responds beautifully with shivers and incoherent verbalizations. His mouth wanders, leaving wet, dark circles in its wake. Freddie’s chest and torso are soon marked with love bites and suck marks.

Freddie desperately wants to reciprocate, needs to taste and feel John in the same ways and for very self indulgent reasons; aside from the pleasure it would give the other man. But John seems to be ravenous, he’s taking and making very clear what he wants now and it’s becoming increasingly difficult for Freddie to object or slow down this rapidly heating seduction (not that he desires either, honestly).

John’s warm steady hand finds its way to Freddie’s crotch, palming his hardness through the thin fabric. The singer grinds against his hand, letting out a loud moan from his chest. In no time, Freddie finds himself humping into John’s hand, and suddenly ... it’s all happening too fast. He then feels John’s fingers slide under the waistband of his terrycloth shorts, and simultaneously he feels his mind slide further into abject lust. 

And unexpectedly, even to Freddie himself … he _stops_ him. His sweaty palm rests gently on John’s wrist. 

The younger man freezes, drawing in a nervous sharp breath.

“John, I …” he hesitates.

“Freddie?” His face full of panicked concern. “Oh no, what’s wrong?”

“I … uh, nothing is wrong. I, … I just,” he stammers, looking away shamefully from the bassist’s worried eyes. It’s clear something is really bothering him. Freddie can’t recall if anything like this has ever happened before. That is to say, he’s normally not one to put on the brakes during a makeout. The implications frighten him.

“What happened Freddie … are you okay? Was that too much? Oh God, I’m so sorry ...” his voice trails off, he starts to feel a little ill, worried that he’d upset Freddie.

The singer caresses his hand in an effort to comfort him. “Oh my God ... no, sweetheart. You have nothing to apologize for. I should be apologizing.” Freddie furrows his brow, looking toward the ceiling, trying to pick his words carefully. “I want it,” He returns his apologetic gaze to John’s eyes. “I’m afraid I want it too much.”

John adjusts himself, nestling into the crook of Freddie’s neck. He retrieves Freddie’s hand to hold it against his chest. “What do you mean, Freddie? Is that … possible? How is that a problem?”

The singer lets out a tiny defeated laugh. He feels a part of his soul sinking, but he doesn’t fully understand why … and much less how to put it into words. He feels a little silly too for suddenly being so affected by what is ultimately, emotion. Right in the middle of … this.

“John.” He draws in a deep breath, clearly unsure of how to word his concerns. “I … I think I care about you too much. Well, no, not _too much._ I’m just … I guess I’m worried about what will happen, beyond … this.” A pause. John’s hand stills on Freddie’s chest, he’s listening intently. Freddie exhales, sounding a little frustrated with himself. “I don’t want this to just be lust. I’m accustomed to lust, I’m accustomed to … well, one night stands.” He exhales, looking absolutely defeated. “I’m … maybe I’m a little scared.”

“Scared,” John repeats softly, mostly to himself. “You … _you’re_ scared?” He scoots off of Freddie’s chest, they both lay on their sides looking at each other. Freddie wants to elaborate but the words aren’t coming.

“You … know that I desire you. Sexually. But ... fuck,” Freddie stumbles over his words, worrying that maybe he’s digging a hole he won’t be able to explain himself out of.

“I desire you … sexually, too. Freddie. I … I’m sorry for moving too fast.” 

_“No._ John. Listen. It wasn’t that. I _promise._ I am simply dying for you to ravage me. It’s me. Maybe I’ve never been _invested_ in a person like this. Usually my hookups don’t involve a potential mess. No strings attached. Usually there’s no … baggage? No, not _baggage._ Fuck.” He ponders, looking very cross at his lack of eloquence. “I’ve been quite fond of you for years, dear. Do you … know what I mean?” Freddie is flustered and trying his best not to stammer.

John wants to kiss him for being so wrapped up in this specific brand of considerate worry. “I think so Freddie. I mean … I understand your reluctance. It’s more than just _this_ too, us getting tangled up has potential band consequences as well.” Freddie frowns, blinking. Hearing it out loud makes him want to wince. “But I know you’re talking about feelings right now Freddie. I know it’s complicated,” he pauses, looking into the singer’s eyes. “I hope you know I feel the same, though.”

Freddie didn’t know he’d been holding his breath until that moment. He exhales, feeling a new sort of warmth fill his chest, along with unexpected butterflies. John pulls him in close to hold him. 

“Do you?” 

John nods, then kisses Freddie’s forehead softly. “Of course I do, Freddie. Whatever happens with all of _this_ , you’re one of my best friends. Even if this is … just, I don’t know … pent up sexual frustration from years of quiet adoration … even if it’s temporary. Nothing can change that I already love you platonically … you know? Nothing can diminish or take away the fact that I already love and respect you as a friend.” Freddie just stares at him, breathlessly dumbfounded at the simple way he’s stated this, and how could he possibly follow up such a statement anyhow? He wants to kiss him very badly, words don’t seem to suffice. “It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that. Unless we want it to be." Freddie's face is full on blushing, and he's left completely wordless. John smiles at him, twirling a lock of Freddie's hair around his pointer finger. "It can only improve, the way I see it. Because I trust you.”

“I … I don’t know what to say dear. You’ve managed to put into words things I didn’t have the vocabulary for.” He pulls up the bassist’s hand to kiss his knuckles. “You’re so sweet, darling. I’m struggling for words, I apologize.”

John offers him a meek, shy smile. He's blushing too. "Don't apologize, Freddie, ..."

Freddie furrows his brow with a small sigh. “Are you … sure about all of this, darling?" He pauses, worriedly looking into John's eyes. "I feel like I’ve ... pressured you into this, in some ways.” 

“Oh my God Freddie ... stop it!” he laughs, throwing his head back. “You _do_ remember that it was me who sulked in bed all day thinking you didn’t want to kiss _me,_ right?” 

Freddie laughs a little too loud, acquiescing. “Well, okay. When you put it _that_ way.” 

“Are you feeling … better, about all of this? I don’t want to pressure _you_ into anything you’re not comfortable with.”

The singer feels himself melting, he’s not sure if it’s the summer heat or his heart. John’s gentle nature and concern is so staggeringly genuine. Freddie is so _touched_ by his goodness, but conversely, it renders him continuously speechless. Without fail. Who knew John was so romantic? It sweeps Freddie off of his feet, quite honestly.

Freddie nods, an uncharacteristically shy grin plastered on his beautifully chiseled face. “I’m sure about it now, dear. I hope you understand now why I stopped you.” 

John lightly brushes his hand across Freddie’s cheek then pulls him in for a soft kiss. “Of course I do,” he mumbles, kissing his lips, then his chin, then his nose. John sighs. “It’s so late … we really should get some sleep. This has been an exhausting day.”

“Mmm. I suspect you’re right,” Freddie pouts, looking a little let down at the prospect that this may be over … and who knows how either of them will feel about this after sleep. More specifically, he worries about John regretting all of this and his own potential heartbreak. “I’m sure sneaking out won’t be too difficult at this hour … unless Brian is already up fidgeting about with his early-morning field photography.”

The bassist laughs nervously. “Will you … umm. Stay here with me Freddie?”

He blinks, he hadn’t even considered it. A blush rises in his cheeks. “Can I?” His eyes are sparkling with fondness. 

“Of course. I don’t want you to leave now that I’ve finally got you here.” Something about his words spark something in Freddie and he finds himself staring at John’s lips hungrily.

“Kiss me ...” 

John complies, wasting no time to crush his lips against the singer’s. Freddie eagerly responds, deepening their kiss. His tongue slides easily into John’s mouth and is met with equally excited fervor. It’s all hot breaths and lips sliding clumsily against each other again, and they end up recklessly kissing like teenagers for another half an hour. It just felt so good, and so very long overdue. Neither of them want to stop—but it was closing in on 6am and both of them were feeling exhausted, despite. Pastel hues of morning light were already filtering in from under the valance.

They lazily caressed, giving each other gentle kisses, dozing off in a classic spoon position. Freddie was the little one, _of course._

“Freddie,” John mumbles into his hair.

“Mmm? What is it love?” Freddie takes his hand and kisses his fingers, then intertwines them.

“I haven’t forgotten your request, you know.“

“What request?” The singer truly has no idea what he’s talking about. He looks over his shoulder with a curious expression.

“You asked to get on top.”

Freddie’s eyes go comically wide and he finds himself blushing (again). He’d forgotten. “Oh dear,” he chuckles. “Trust me, honey. I still want to, very badly.” He temptingly wriggles his ass against John’s body pressed behind him.

John pulls him closer, “I can’t wait,” he whispers in a seductive tone. He slides his erection against Freddie’s backside in response, eliciting a breathy moan from the singer. He caresses Freddie’s jaw and kisses him from over his shoulder, slowly rutting against him for the duration of the kiss.

_“Fuck,”_ Freddie breathes out, trying desperately to grind his ass against the bassist’s hardness.

“Tomorrow,” he teases, nibbling at Freddie’s earlobe softly. He pushes his black hair aside and kisses at his neck. _What a dick.  
_

This is torture. Abject cruelty.

Freddie groans, pouting. He wishes John wasn’t being such a tease right now. “Oh, all right … damn it,” he concedes. “You’re terrible, you know that?”

John hums in response with a slight chuckle, lying back and pulling Freddie’s back to his chest, re-spooning. “You’re right, I’m sorry Freddie … as tired as I am, it doesn’t stop you from being sexy.” Freddie huffs. “But I most definitely am too tired.”

“It’s probably me who initiated this again, you have nothing to apologize for, sweetheart.” He smiles, allowing himself to relax and meld into John’s warmth.

Within minutes John is breathing the steady breath of sleep, gently fanning Freddie’s hair. The sound is comforting and makes the singer feel precious, and safe. Freddie eventually falls asleep with a serene smile on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long to push out, friends. I know it's been forever! This chapter was extremely hard to write for some reason, and honestly I am still not quite sure how I feel about it. Are you happy that they finally got to kiss? I feel terrible for making them wait so long.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please let me know your thoughts :') ♥


	5. Chapter 5

The heavy dew on the grass seeps into the suede of Brian’s tan boots as he trudges through the lawn to reach the outer perimeter of the grounds. 

“Damn,” he mutters to himself, wishing he’d worn some footwear that wasn’t quite as expensive or hard to clean. He hadn’t expected it to be quite so _wet,_ but it was too late now, the suede was blotchy and saturated. A mental note to purchase some Scotchgard next time they were in town was made. He chuckles at the idea of needing it; he’d never imagined being a _rock star_ and having to worry about his _precious_ suede boots. It dawns on him that they’re made of suede, and that makes him feel doubly bad.

He decides to stop thinking for a while in order to enjoy his early morning trek.

It’s barely dawn, but something from within beckoned him from his slumber to go outside and take photographs. The grounds of the farm were beautiful; serene. There was a faint aroma of sweet hay in the early morning air, the humidity only seemed to enhance it. It’d be idyllic if it were just a bit less warm.

He sneezes, unexpectedly. The sharp sound causes _something_ to scatter off behind the fence in a flurry of grey. Brian stands stock still, hoping the critter re-emerges so that he can take a photo. He readies his camera, just in case.

_Of course,_ the damned lens is fogged up. As he frantically tries to wipe away the moisture, a large hare dashes from the fence and hides in a bush. Brian tries to capture this moment but fails. He avoids cursing, though he wants to. Reluctantly, he decides instead to try patience, and it pays off. 

He quietly walks to the fence and steadies his camera against the post, aiming it toward the bush the hare had bounded off to. Moments later, the timid creature hops into the clearing. It seemed to be foraging. Brian takes a few snapshots, grinning. Oh, it was a _big_ hare. Tall ears, long feet and wide, dulcet brown eyes. Brian wished he could pet the thing, it was just beautiful. It dashed off again when it noticed the movement of Brian adjusting the aperture. He didn’t mind honestly; mostly he just felt happy to have experienced this.

“Thank you, bunny,” he mutters. His mind wanders to _The Velveteen Rabbit_ and he has to force himself to avoid becoming emotional.

Rays of golden sun and velvety violet shadow are wrapping the horizon now, the shadows elongate. He decides to take some pictures of that, as well. If only he could take a photo of how lovely the birds sound, too.

~ ~ ~

Brian decides to return to the farm house after a bit of a reverie, his stomach is growling and buttered toast sounds divine right about now.

As he walks, he glances bitterly at his boots once again, now thoroughly covered in dead grass and hay. Initially he’s annoyed, ultimately deciding that he probably deserves this fate for _still_ wearing the skin of an animal on his feet. He sighs, feeling like a hypocrite. His inner turmoil is seemingly never-ending. He decides to make an effort to stop buying animal products, for good. 

Something catches his eye and halts his self-loathing; it’s a black cat, stalking something near the door of their practice area in the barn. Brian stops to watch it unfold. The cat moves swiftly and slinkily hugging the building’s edge, its prey seemingly unaware. He trails it with his eyes until the animal rounds the corner and deftly slips into the barn. Brian decides to follow.

By the time he makes it to the barn, the cat’s target seemed to have disappeared. It looks around inquisitively, then just sits, blinking. It licks its paw, then chest, already forgetting the lost opportunity. 

“Hey there kitty,” Brian says in a high pitched, sweet tone. Initially, the cat is startled and jumps a little, thinking it had been alone. It meows at him and it feels to Brian like a mild scolding. The feline snakes its tail a few times, annoyed (and maybe embarrassed), before giving in and trotting over to him. It’s a sweet kitty. Brian puts his camera down on an amp and pets the cat. Small, but surprisingly friendly and unafraid. Loud thunderous purrs, vocal. Sleek. Beautiful.

It reminds him of Freddie, oddly.

Brian lingers in the barn, idly petting and chatting with the small silky cat for less time than he would have liked, but the cat had other engagements apparently. He was grateful to meet the sweet creature, in any case. Maybe it would be back. He hoped it would.

Oh well, he was hungry and only getting hungrier. He begins his trek to go back inside.

~ ~ ~

Shirtless and oddly sweaty, Roger exits his room stretching with a big yawn. He would’ve preferred sleeping longer, but a bad dream kept him up. It was one of those _dreadful location_ dreams, the kind that takes place in an ominous unknown structure, and everything just feels terrible and wrong; the kind of nebulous terrible that persists after waking. Needless to say, the drummer is feeling cranky. He squints weakly into the low-lit room; seeing nobody else, he assumes it must be quite early. He plods his way toward the kitchen in an effort to throw some water down his parched throat.

His gullet felt scratchier than usual. Perhaps it was from their long practice the night before, but it could be from smoking so much lately. He turns it over in his mind—why _had_ he been smoking more lately? Was it just the idle comfort of this setting? Frustration borne of horniness? Nothing to do between making music in the countryside? Maybe it was a bit of all those things. He couldn’t afford to lose his voice, though. At least the well water didn’t taste bad.

While he idly ponders at the kitchen sink, he squints over the top of his glass and out the window. _Is … that Brian?_ Furrowing his brow, Roger lowers his glass and trains his eyes on the guitarist in mild confusion. _What the hell was he doing out there?_

Roger nearly drops his drink when a laugh bursts forth (into his glass). It seems Brian has tripped over something, and his valiant effort to stay upright was simply _ridiculous._ And just as it seemed he had it all together, he fell into the side of a bale of hay. Because of course he did. If his landing hadn’t been soft, Roger would’ve felt bad for laughing at his friend. 

_Maybe._

The comedy continues when Brian realizes he’s got loads of hay stuck in his hair. He looks annoyed and indignant, tousling his hair in a frenzied effort to shake out the straw. 

Roger is nearly on the floor laughing uncontrollably now; his shitty bad dream all but forgotten. He can hear Brian cursing as he enters from the back door. Oh, he _tries_ to hold it together. He stills his breath and clamps his mouth shut with a hand, just waiting for Brian to enter the kitchen.

But it doesn’t happen. Somehow, Roger isn’t detected. Brian strides straight to the loo to check for hay in his hair. Roger chuckles into his glass, finishing it off. 

_How much ribbing could he possibly milk from this situation? And should he blow it all now or pester Brian all day with it? Maybe he’d just wait and tell Freddie so they could mock him together._ Important decisions.

_“Jesus_ Roger, you scared the tinsel out of me. What are you doing here silently in the dark,” he pauses to sourly scrunch his nose, “nearly … nude?”

So lost in devious thought, he hadn’t heard Brian enter and it startled him. If his vocal chords hadn’t been totally fucked, he would’ve yelled. It comes out as a crackly _honk,_ causing Brian to laugh.

“What? I’m not naked!” Roger moves to flip on the light switch. “See?”

The guitarist holds a hand up, as if blinded by Roger’s showing of skin.

“I’m not _that_ white, come on!”

“No, you’re quite tan, but I’m seeing too much of you Roger.” 

“Oh, come off it. You’ve seen worse, even from me. You didn’t seem to mind during the _Sheer Heart Attack_ shoot. Or the _nude_ shoot for that matter.”

“That was different and you know it, that was to sell albums. At _least_ have the decency to put on something less revealing than … _briefs.”_

“You don’t bitch when Freddie wears shit like this!” _As if underwear were an outfit._

“Listen to yourself Roger. Do you really think there would be a point in prattling on at Fred about what he wears? It would end in catastrophe. I don’t even want to imagine what he’d put me through.”

“You’re just weak, Bri. You can’t handle our _hotness.”_

“Oh my God, stop. Just stop.”

“I should ask Freddie what he thinks of my outfit. Maybe we could have a fashion show right here in the kitchen for you.” Pulling a long stemmed carnation from a nearby vase, he places it between his teeth and poses as egregiously provocative as he can muster.

“I’m going to kill you, you know. I hope you’ve written a will,” Brian replies, completely deadpan. He attempts retreating to his room for some peace from this relentless blonde devil.

“I _saw_ you, Bri!” Roger sings from behind Brian’s back. Brian stops his advance to slowly turn on his heel. His sueded, platform heel. _Why did he ever think it was a good idea to wear them outside?_ Roger cocks an eyebrow at him, then twirls the stem between his fingers like a drumstick.

“Saw me _what?”_ He visibly swallows, blinking. His patience is sapped.

Roger remains silent. He returns the stem to the vase, leaning against the sink looking very smug. He shrugs nonchalantly at the guitarist with a lippy, disenchanted pout. Brian sighs the sigh of millions, totally done.

“I don’t have time for this.”

The drummer snickers while Brian retreats, imagining how fun this will be when he tells Freddie about what happened. Freddie would lose his mind with laughter, he can’t wait.

He decides to make some coffee, in his non-outfit. While it’s brewing, he trots off to grab a robe from his room to be courteous. Brian is too easy to rile up … oh, they _do_ have fun.

The smell of coffee has Brian coming back just a few minutes later. He wasn’t expecting it, but Roger had indeed made enough for the both of them. He pokes his head around the kitchen wall, relieved to see that Roger is now clothed. “Hey, did you know there’s a cat out there?” 

Roger turns around, stirring a bit of milk into his warm mug. “A cat? Oh, I made coffee, you can have some if you’d like.”

“Thank you, I’d love some. And yes, there was a little black kitty by the barn. He’s very sweet. You should go say hello later.”

“I will. Maybe I’ll do a fashion show for him instead.”

“Why are you like this? Get out of the way. Please.” Roger slowly moves aside to give Brian access to the cupboard, but just barely.

“Like what?” He grins, taking a sip. It’s too hot. “I’ve got nothing better to do today Brian.”

“I hate you.” 

“You love me.” 

“Maybe. If you’re lucky.” He nudges Roger out of the way and he nearly splashes coffee on himself. “Will you … just _move?!”_ Brian really just wants access to a spoon right now.

_“Brian Harold May!”_

“Well! You’re being a brat. Knock it off! Let me get a damned spoon.”

“Just use mine! It’s right there on the napkin!”

_“Fine.”_ He acquiesces with an exasperated exhale, trying not to fume. He just wants this nonsense to stop. After his disgraceful windmilling fall he wants to relax, not be heckled or badgered by Roger, who is clearly in the mood to be a badgering heckler.

“What are you so bothered about, Bri?” Roger sits at a small round breakfast table in the kitchen, sipping serenely. 

“You! My God! It’s too early for this. Do you ever stop?” Finally he’s able to drink some of the coffee, he enjoys it extra hot. He takes a seat next to Roger with an exhausted sigh. 

_“Tch._ I don’t know what you’re talking about,” mutters the drummer.

Brian says nothing, trying to focus on the warm drink, refusing to let Roger get under his skin anymore. A few minutes pass in blessed silence. To Brian’s horror, he spots a tiny piece of hay floating in his coffee. Luckily, his _friend_ doesn’t seem to notice. He ponders just drinking the damn hay to avoid another annoyance.

“Alright, I’m sorry, I’ll stop pestering you.” Roger gets up and rinses his mug. On his way out of the kitchen he stops to pat Brian on the back in apology.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, Major Tom,” he chuckles. “Oh, here—you missed a piece,” Roger says, offering him a shred of hay he’d retrieved from the guitarist’s shirt. 

Brian just closes his eyes and nods, defeatedly. _Of course Roger had seen it. Shit._

The drummer laughs at Brian’s reaction. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” He tugs one of Brian’s curls on his way to his room, letting it _sproing_ back into place. 

The guitarist wants to swat his hand away in anger but can’t even react. Brian shakes his head, muttering skyward, fighting the red rising in his complexion. His embarrassment is immeasurable. 

Once he’s sure Roger is definitely out of sight, he places his forehead to the tiles of the table and rolls it back and forth in a very miserable display of defeat. He considers giving up and taking a morning nap there, he’s got nothing left to lose and doesn’t want to move. _There is simply no way that Roger isn’t going to tell Freddie._ He might as well just die right here at the table to avoid all of _that._

He suddenly remembers something peculiar. _Hold on … wasn’t Freddie’s door open when he went down the hall to use the loo?_ Was he imagining it? In his flustered rush he didn’t pay it much mind. Brian gets up, pushes in the chair and goes to investigate.

His brow knits up with dull worry, seeing that Freddie definitely isn’t in his room. Where on earth could he be? It couldn’t be past 9am, and the guitarist simply can’t imagine where Freddie could be off to at this hour. His bed is even made. What is happening? 

_Maybe Roger knows something._ He sighs, not really wanting to tangle with him again or offer the younger man more opportunities to give him shit. He’s worried about his friend though, so he decides he simply must. 

“Roger,” he knocks on the drummer’s door. “Open up please.”

Roger appears (fully clothed), brushing his hair. He’s got an unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. “What’s up Doc?” he chimes.

“Have you seen Fred? He’s not in his room.” 

_“What?”_ His brow furrows as he thinks, while he concentrates on loosening a small knot in his mane.

“I haven’t seen him since last night. Do you know if he went out?” 

Roger shakes his head. “No, the last I saw of him he was doing dishes with Deaky before I went to sleep,” he mumbled around the cigarette. Then, he abruptly stops brushing. _He knows. He knows exactly where Freddie is._ He tries to keep his expression even.

“Hmm. Should we go ask Deaky?” Brian’s eyes search Roger’s, he’s very concerned.

_Fuck. Quandary._ Roger isn’t sure if Brian is ready to hear about what he suspects, but he’s also not comfortable being the keeper of this potentially volatile information. It’s not his secret to share, it’s theirs, if there’s anything to his suspicions of course.

“Mmm,” he shakes his head in the negative, furrowing his brow. “Naaaah … Deaky needs the sleep, he hasn’t been feeling well. We shouldn’t bother him.”

“Aren’t you worried about Fred?” 

_He’s so bad at lying, this is just terrible._ “Let’s just wait until Deaky wakes up, he might know. I’m sure it’s nothing.” A couple minutes pass and the drummer tries to look concerned with brushing his hair, but Brian won’t leave this alone, he hasn’t moved from the doorframe and he’s got his arms crossed waiting for a satisfactory solution. “Fred _was_ talking about wanting French Toast last night, maybe he got a driver.” 

“I’ve been up for hours Rog, I didn’t see anything like that.” 

_Shit shit shit._

He pauses, putting the cigarette on the dresser for later. He wasn’t expecting to have to talk. “I’m not worried. Let’s not panic yet, he’s an adult. Let’s just wait on John to see if he knows anything.”

Brian looks apprehensive, but decides Roger’s reasoning is sound. _For now_. “Alright. I suppose you’re right. It’s probably nothing,” he doesn’t sound like he believes himself.

Roger quietly sighs with a bit of relief, not having to endure this lying hell any longer. The truth is, if he’d found Freddie to be missing he’d be in panic mode. He’d have burst through every door in the house by now looking for the tiny singer. But, he’s had so many _very_ valid context clues that he sees no reason to worry. 

“Don’t worry Brian, I’m sure he’s fine! Let’s just give it some time, yeah?” He pats his back in an effort to calm his nerves. “I’m sure nothing is wrong.”

“Okay. Alright. I’ll be reading … if you hear from him first, come find me please.”

“You got it.” He feels like shit having to _act_ like this, covering up for two friends and lying to the other. However, after Brian leaves, he finds himself quietly chuckling at what seems to be unfolding. _“Horny bastards,”_ he whispers to himself. He continues detangling his hair, mildly delighted but equally mildly disgusted at the thought of them … _doing things._ He wasn’t morally opposed of course, it was simply because they were his friends. If he’s being honest, it’s not as if he couldn’t _feel_ the tension whenever both of them were around, and that annoying sugary strain went back years. Perhaps it was better for them to just get it out of the way. He doesn’t understand how Brian hasn’t seemed to pick up on it after all this time. Freddie wasn’t even subtle about it. He was always flirting, though with John it was a more … reverent, demure flirting, than his usual. From Roger’s observations at least. 

A noisy growl from his torso reminds Brian that he was hungry. He’d forgotten, what with all the flailing and falling, then the harassment and ridicule from Roger. He decides to return to the kitchen to make that buttered toast he’d been craving, assuming it’d be an appropriate compliment to the worrying and reading he’ll be doing. While the bread toasts, he tops off his coffee.

After the bread is toasted and buttered, he retrieves his well-worn copy of Hesse’s _Siddhartha_ from his bedroom. Now, to go sit in the living room and wait. And fret. _What would Siddhartha do in this situation? What would Govinda do?_ He often wondered if he’d ever have his own Govinda. For now, he decides that either man would wait patiently. Perhaps enlightenment would follow.

~ ~ ~

John wakes with a start, a little too hot and slightly bewildered. He’s on his back, looking toward the ceiling. It’s dead quiet in his room, save for the soft, even sound of Freddie’s exhales as he lay serenely sleeping next to him.

_Freddie. Freddie is in his bed._

His eyes jolt open and he quickly turns his head to see if it’s actually true, and _yes._ Yes, it is. His heart instantly leaps right back into his throat where it had been lodged the night before.

Freddie isn’t covered, he actually looks to be shivering. _Oh, dear God. Had he really stolen all the covers? That explains the sweating._

Sure enough, John was somehow wrapped up in two entire blankets and he had left poor Freddie with none. He winces and softly curses at himself for being so inconsiderate in his sleep. He tries to quietly untangle himself and share the blankets. He grunts, finally freeing the last corner out from under his butt.

Freddie is on his side but he’s facing him now, unlike how he’d last been seen; a small spoon. He covers him as carefully as possible, trying not to wake him. 

Luckily, he doesn’t stir and John manages to not be clumsy about it.

John realizes after a bit that he’d been staring at Freddie, utterly rapt, getting pulled into and lost in the beauty of the sleepy man in his bed. Freddie, even sleeping, was truly a sight to behold. John can only stare, untrusting of his eyes, unbelieving that this is even real. 

He wants to trust that seeing is believing but this is a _stretch._

Freddie’s eyes rapidly shift behind his eyelids, _he must be dreaming._ John’s mind wanders to them kissing, just hours before, and the thought turns him red nearly instantly. He can’t believe how bold he’d been. And he really wants to kiss him again, soon. As soon as possible. It is a trial in restraint to not just do it right now.

Part of John doesn’t want Freddie to wake up. What if Freddie decided this was a terrible idea after all, a horrible, unbelievable mistake? The thought is dreadful. It makes the bassist consider just getting up and leaving the room so he wouldn’t have to potentially witness it. Why _would_ Freddie think this was a good idea, after all? Oh, how John loathes these intrusive and terrible thoughts.

Soft morning light is now spilling into the room. It’s _not_ very pleasant, to be honest. He leaves the bed as gently as possible, to draw the shades and kill the light. If anything, he doesn’t want Freddie to wake up with the blazing sun in his eyes. He’d never return. John wasn’t willing to risk that.

He tiptoes back to the bed and quietly maneuvers himself in, deciding to get behind Freddie. He wants to re-spoon him. He wants to hold him close. He figures he doesn’t have much control over Freddie’s reaction to all of this in any case, so he might as well _hug_ his friend.

He slides his arm under Freddie’s, embracing his chest and pulling him close. Freddie was still cold, even under the covers. John felt guilty again, but was happy to be able to provide him with some warmth. Freddie stirs, letting out an involuntary high pitched (but quiet) ‘Mmm,’ and interlaces their fingers against his chest.

John remains quiet, but he’s blushing now. What an adorable noise Freddie had made. He could die. Right now, just fucking die. John decides right then and there that this is more than enough for him. Freddie’s effortless and sparkling affection staggers him, it hits him right in the heart. He’d never considered himself a romantic but it has him questioning everything. Maybe it was just because it was Freddie. _His_ Freddie. 

He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, just … _appreciating_ this. For him, it is beyond fulfilling; this blessed proximity and calm tenderness. How very long he’d wanted this. Even if this was temporary, he feels like his heart could burst with gratitude. To what (or whom) exactly, he wasn’t sure.

He buries his face in Freddie’s soft, black tresses and squeezes his hand lightly. Apparently Freddie is at least partially awake now, because he returns the squeeze, then pulls his hand up to softly kiss the back of it.

To John’s surprise, Freddie shifts, turning around abruptly to face him. After a bewildering and breathless minute, Freddie just smiles at him. When John returns the smile, Freddie goes in for a delicate kiss, draping his free arm around the bassist’s neck.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he says, smiling against the bassist’s lips. His voice cracks when he says _‘sweetheart,’_ endearing himself to John even further. He doesn’t even have to try. John is utterly taken.

After a moment of John thinking he would die of fondness, he’s able to reply. “Hi,” he says shyly with a big grin, pulling Freddie closer to him to return the kiss. 

Initially John worried that morning breath would be an issue but apparently the singer doesn’t care. He decides he doesn’t care either in that case. 

It becomes a non-issue pretty swiftly, as Freddie is already sucking and kissing lightly at his throat, fingers fumbling to unbutton the bassist’s shirt. He’s nimble with clothing removal it turns out, tossing John’s shirt to the floor. He wastes no time, pressing John’s bare shoulder to the bed so that he’s laying on his back, granting Freddie easier access to kiss and caress his bare chest. Freddie’s hands are everywhere, tenderly stroking his chest and torso. John’s skin is so supple and warm against the singer’s cool, relatively dry fingers. He first kisses John’s neck, then the alluring dip of his clavicle, and with his lips he forges a slippery path toward his chest.

“Aaah .. _Freddie,”_ John moans softly, eyes fluttering closed. He arches his back involuntarily with a gasp, feeling Freddie’s teeth graze, then delicately bite at his nipple. The singer’s hot breath fans against his now wet skin. Freddie sucks and gently bites; the tender peak of John’s nipple trapped between his teeth. He holds it there, softly nestled between his incisors, licking at it, then releasing it for a hard suck. John writhes and sighs breathlessly below him. Freddie’s sucking leaves a wet trail of marks on the younger man’s skin. Seeing the slippery mess he’s making only furthers his arousal. He pinches and pulls at the other nipple, softly rolling it back and forth between his fingers, teasing it into firmness. Freddie’s lips move to find it, he moans, tonguing at the new hardness. 

Jolts of sensation leave John dizzy with lust. He didn’t even know he was _into_ that … but he supposed nobody had ever been so fascinated with his chest, so he simply wasn’t aware. Let alone, he’d never been intimate with another man. This was new, and he was certain now. Freddie’s hands and lips were all over him and he couldn’t feel any more high if he were on LSD. 

“John honey, is this okay?” Freddie manages to mumble out between licks against his erratically heaving chest. He nods emphatically, punctuated with a high moan. He’s not quite able to enunciate. “Mmm ... good,” Freddie chuckles. He slides his warm tongue over John’s flushed areola once again, then bites down harder than before. John gasps, tensing and arching his back in response. Freddie growls excitedly, “Your nipples are lovely, you know that?” He moves back to the other one, circling it with his tongue then lavishly kissing and sucking at the cool, damp skin. Freddie is clearly smitten, he can’t take his mouth off of them. 

“Oh, stop ..,” John laughs. His face reddens and he finds himself wanting to cover up.

“It’s true. They’re perfect.” John isn’t able to stop giggling now, the mixture of Freddie’s licking, his overly-aroused nipples, and the compliments are just too much, he can only laugh. _“Jesus_ John, you’re so fucking cute. I can’t get enough of you.”

“Good, I don’t _want_ you to get _enough_ of me.” With that, Freddie cups his face and returns his lips to cover it in small kisses. He settles between John’s legs, relaxing against him. The bassist can’t stop giggling, and Freddie can’t stop smooching him.

Freddie chuckles, very amused by John’s laughter. “You’re so silly John, my God.”

“Shut up!”

“Or _what?_ What will you do, darling?” He threatens to tickle him, burying his hands into the crevices of his armpits swiftly. But John is fast, he clamps down just in time, trapping Freddie’s hands.

“Noooo n-no no, anything but that, oh God! Freddie _stop!”_ Freddie laughs, wiggling his fingers to tease the man below him. “I won’t kiss you anymore if you don’t stop!”

Freddie’s eyes go wide and his mouth drops open, offended. “The punishment doesn’t fit the crime dear. Both of us would suffer. You like kissing me, right?”

“Mmm, … eh, I could take it or leave it.” He says it completely deadpan, he manages to fool the singer for a minute.

Freddie’s jaw drops for a second time and he scoffs. _“Excuse me?_ Did I hear that right?”

John sighs with a self-satisfied smile. “Just shut up and kiss me or I might reconsider.”

_“Oh ~_ look at _you_ now. It’s so cute when you think you have control.” 

John scrunches his face. “Actually,” he sucks in a breath. “It’s kind of cute that you think I don’t,” he smirks at the singer in mock apology.

Freddie laughs raucously. He raises his eyebrows, saying nothing but registering John’s words as a challenge. He chuckles to himself while adjusting his body, nestling snugly between John’s legs for more direct contact.

“All jokes aside ... I’m really happy we’re doing this, Freddie.”

“Me too, darling,” he says, smiling fondly at the man below him.

John wraps his arms around Freddie’s neck to pull him in for a deep, slow kiss. They both go breathless as their tongues slide warm and wet against each other, their lips slippery and reddened. John’s soft moaning into Freddie’s mouth sets him on proverbial fire.

They separate temporarily so that John can tug Freddie’s shirt off over his head, it takes no effort, being a small tank top. He wants to feel Freddie’s warmth against his own. John spreads his hands out against Freddie’s chest, feeling the soft hair slide between his fingers. His thumbs graze the singer’s areolas simultaneously, eliciting an electrifying moan from the man above him.

John is suddenly keenly aware of how … _male,_ and _staggeringly erotic_ … Freddie looks without a shirt on, hovering above him with mouth slightly parted and full lips glistening. He’s panting heavily, looking at John with such a lustful gaze that it’s almost hard to keep eye contact, it makes him blush. Freddie’s piercing eyes leave him feeling vulnerable, nearly split in two, and he welcomes it.

He pulls at Freddie impatiently, urging him closer, crushing their lips together recklessly and whining softly into his mouth. He rocks his hips against the singer from beneath, wrapping his legs around him in an effort to pull him closer, seeking friction. His hands find Freddie’s long hair, he grasps it and pulls back, exposing Freddie’s throat to his mouth. Freddie gasps, a breathy hum escapes him. John licks and sucks at his neck hungrily, while Freddie’s throat offers a deep chorus of vibrations and moans to John’s lips—which in turn jolt straight to his groin. _“God …_ I want you so bad, Freddie.”

_"Fuck.”_ Freddie groans as his eyes flutter shut, responding to John’s straining hips below him. He grinds down as best he can while completely wrapped against John. He finds the bassist’s mouth again, kissing him ardently. “I want you too, sweetheart,” he mutters between quick, but intense, kisses. “You have _no_ idea.” He slips his tongue deep into John’s mouth once more, and John welcomes it. John runs his hands through the singer’s scalp, then grasps, pulling him hard into the kiss.

Freddie moans with absolute pleasure, he’s continuously and pleasantly surprised by John’s bold use of force when he wants something. He pulls away, scraping his teeth against John’s bottom lip in gentle desperation.

“I think I do,” John responds with a deliberate grind of his hips and a rumbling hum from his throat. He grabs Freddie’s ass, rolling his hips upward and against him. They're both fully aroused, passionately rutting against each other in a slow, desperate search for heat and pressure. John sucks in a sharp breath and rolls his eyes back, realizing that their parts are touching, only separated by thin layers of cloth. It’s wildly arousing, and he’d never done this. It was overwhelmingly, beautifully erotic. Almost too much for him to bear.

John was still wearing jeans—he’d fallen asleep cuddling Freddie that way, but Freddie’s clothing was a lot less restrictive and left less to the imagination. His shorts were, well, a little too short to completely obscure his arousal. The underside of his cock dragged against the terry fabric. If not for the wicking, rough texture of his shorts, he probably would’ve climaxed already.

“Freddie … oh, _God,”_ John was nearly incoherent. He tightened his fists into the bedsheets as Freddie ground against him. It was slow, but intense.

Freddie leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Do you like this, sweetheart?” He rubbed himself against the younger man, thrusting his erection alongside John’s with a slow, steady pace. John grasps Freddie’s ass with both hands, pushing him down to roughly grind against his body. The bassist pulls in a shaky breath and holds it, tensing up. He hisses, nodding with tightly closed eyes.

“Mmm … look at you, what a sight,” Freddie hovered above him, his hair tickling the bassist’s face. John trembled, his neediness for touch threatening to steal away any decency he had left. “I haven’t even properly touched you and you’re right on the edge. I’m sincerely flattered, love.”

John bites his lip, want and hunger written all over his face. He’s a little embarrassed at his own desperation, and couldn’t joke right now if his life depended on it. He quivered with impossible need. He was simply too turned on, overstimulated.

_“Freddie,”_ he exhaled urgently, asking for something, but not quite sure what he was even requesting, or rather … how to verbalize it.

The singer didn’t need to be asked verbally, he understood intrinsically. He lowered his palm between their bodies, meeting the firm outline of John’s straining cock from the outside of his pants. He traces it slowly with a single finger, watching the bassist’s expression closely. It’s warm against his hand, and exceedingly hard. 

Seeing John like this was almost too much, he was so exposed and needy. His eyes are closed, mouth opened and unable to remain still as little, breathy gasps escaped him. With a lusty growl Freddie bites down on John’s bottom lip, simultaneously stroking his cock from outside his pants.

“Freddie _… ah ... shit,”_ John gasps, thrusting roughly against his hand just twice, and that’s all it takes. He unravels with a string of loud whines, wrapping himself around and rutting against Freddie. _“Shit ... fuck,”_ is all he manages to mutter before his cock twitches, spurting hot cum all over the inside of his tight pants. He thrusts against Freddie’s hand until he’s all but empty. Breathing heavy, he stills himself with a weak falsetto whine, digging his nails into Freddie’s back until the waves of pleasure subside.

Freddie’s eyes go wide, completely enraptured by the sight of this. He forgets to breathe. He’d never imagined John would be _loud._ It’s dizzyingly _hot,_ it makes him blush.

_“Damn it,”_ John exhales, angry at himself. He puts a hand on his forehead out of frustration. “I’m so sorry Freddie … I really ... wasn’t expecting … that.”

“Oh ... no honey, no.” He removes John’s hand from his forehead to squeeze it reassuringly. He pushes a sweaty lock of hair from his brow, then presses a soft kiss into his flushed lips. Freddie smiles at him. “Never apologize for something as beautiful as that.” Freddie takes in a deep breath and has to close his own eyes temporarily. It really was overwhelming to him.

John hugs him, he doesn’t know what to say. He’s in a strange blissful haze of emotions, but embarrassment seems to be at the forefront.

“Are you okay darling? Was that … too much?” Freddie kisses the back of his fingers, looking concerned.

John nods, then shakes his head. Then nods. “Yes, … err, I’m okay. And no, it wasn’t,” he’s still trying to catch his breath. Freddie chuckles under his breath. “I’m sorry, Freddie … I’m … I can’t think right now. But. Thank you … and … that was,” he tries to think of an appropriate descriptor, “That was amazing.”

“Was it?”

“Ha, do I really need to answer that? Wasn’t it … obvious?”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it sweetie,” he smiles and kisses John’s forehead. “I did too, very much.”

“I am embarrassed though. I didn’t expect to … so easily, you know? And you … I know you’re still _hard_ Freddie, I can feel it.”

“I’ll be fine. And shh, please don’t be embarrassed dear, you were perfect. You have no idea how thrilling that was for me. I’ll never have to _imagine_ what you look like when you have an orgasm ever again. I know now, and it’s better than anything I could’ve fabricated.”

“Freddie!” He playfully slaps his arm. “Have you? I mean, have you thought of it?” 

“Almost every night, dear.” John looks at him suspiciously, it makes Freddie laugh. “I’m serious John, why would I lie about something that embarrassing?” 

“Mmmh, I suppose that’s true … but damn. I wish I had known.” 

“What do you mean dear?”

“So much missed opportunity,” he furrows his brow. “You know?”

Freddie drops his head a bit, “I do know,” he sighs. “There’s a lot of frustration and heartache involved, we’ve been studiously avoiding it forever. And I don’t … know … exactly why,” he pauses, trying not to think too explicitly about the past and all of its missed opportunities. Or the years of flirting. Or all the time they could’ve … all kinds of things. Freddie doesn’t want to think of it. “But honey,” he readjusts, still between John’s legs, to rest his head against his chest. “All that matters is the present now … please don’t feel sorrow over things we can’t change.”

John ponders, stroking Freddie’s hair in silence. Freddie closes his eyes contentedly, just listening to his heart beat. After a minute, he props his head up. “We’re able to kiss now,” He grins. “That alone is a miracle. We finally stopped being idiots. And maybe all this lost time somehow made it … even more special.” Freddie thinks his heart might just burst right now. He’s really trying to hold it together, trying not to digest the gravity of time lost between them. _Not right now at least. Push it away. Not now._

John sighs, offering him a smile. “I hadn’t thought of it, but perhaps you’re right.” The singer closes his eyes. John caresses his cheek fondly. He’s got his chin propped up on John’s chest above his own clasped hands. It’s unspeakably adorable. His downcast lashes are so _lush,_ and only serve to further emphasize his ethereal beauty.

“Freddie … I can’t get over it, you’re just so … pretty,” Freddie blinks, then meets his gaze, and he can’t help but blush at the words. “And now I can tell you that, whenever I want.”

Freddie smiles fondly at him, and just as he’s opening his mouth to respond, there’s a peculiar noise from the door.

They look at each other, silently furrowing their brows in unison. 

Freddie pushes himself up off of John’s body, quiet and lithe. He adjusts his shorts, noticing that there’s definitely a wet area, just below his belly button. _It must be from John’s soaked through pants._ His eyes widen but he says nothing, as it’s caused him to start blushing again. He would really like to will away his own cursed boner, it'd be easier if he weren’t confronted with arousing things like John’s _… wetness,_ on his torso.

He tiptoes over, noticing an odd piece of paper peeking out from under the door. He bends to retrieve it and John wolf whistles at him comically. The words in the note are so chilling that the whistle doesn’t even register in Freddie’s head.

> _HEY FRED._
> 
> _PLEASE STOP FUCKING. BRIAN IS WORRIED ABOUT YOU. HE’S ABOUT TO CALL MISSING PERSONS. NOT JOKING. YOU’RE SUCH AN ARSEHOLE FOR LEAVING ME TO DEAL WITH THIS._
> 
> _HI DEAKY!_
> 
> _KISSES ♥_
> 
> _-R_

Freddie looks over at John with the biggest _‘Oh Shit’_ face imaginable, then swiftly dashes over to shove the note at him.

John’s eyes become saucers and he turns beet red. 

“Shit. I’d better go find Roger.”

John can’t speak or move, completely immobilized by Roger’s horrible note.

“Oh, honey,” he chuckles. “Roger does _not_ care, I promise. I know him very well. Don’t you worry about that, okay?”

The bassist just looks at him with a shocked, mildly comedic expression, still unable to speak. He blinks at Freddie. His jaw moves but no sound emerges.

Freddie takes John’s hand to softly caress it. He sits on the bed next to the bassist and puts a comforting arm around him, smiling sweetly. “Listen sweetheart, _I’ll_ go deal with them, you stay here and clean up, ok? I’ll let you know when the commotion is over. But don’t you worry, everything is fine, I promise.”

John feels a bit better hearing these things. He looks at Freddie with a shy smile. “Alright ... thank you Freddie. I’m so embarrassed, oh my God.” 

Freddie rolls his eyes and chuckles devilishly. “Fucking Roger. I’ll get him back.” He gets up to leave, then turns to kiss John sweetly on his cheek. Freddie’s messy hair tickles the bassist’s nose. John rubs it, trying to avoid a reactionary sneeze. Freddie retrieves his crumpled shirt from the floor and throws it on. 

The singer sighs, readying himself. “Ok darling, I’m going. I’ll be back in a flash.” He rubs John’s shoulder once more before slipping out as quietly as possible, first looking both ways to make sure Brian isn’t lurking.

Freddie just _knew_ he looked like shit after all the … well, _everything._ His hair was nightmarishly poofed up from the humidity and he’d been wearing the same clothes for a lifetime. He makes a break for the loo, dreading to be seen. 

~ ~ ~ 

Now alone, John sighs emphatically. He doesn’t want to move, but he must. 

He grimaces, peeling off his ruined pants, still embarrassed. The only thing keeping him in motion right now (and not paralyzed with the shame of being caught by Roger) is the worry of Freddie returning any minute to drag him out to see the others. Frankly, he wants to shower and then sleep some more. Or maybe dash all of that and just make out with Freddie all day. He smiles at the thought.

_Well,_ he thinks, pulling on a clean pair of corduroy trousers. _This ought to be fun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Scotchgard existed in the 70s ;) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I could've stretched out the sexual tension more I suppose ... but honestly I couldn't imagine that ^ scenario, between two grown ass men, ending without at least one of them finishing. (Or MISFIRING, thank you Angelina).
> 
> I want to thank the people who read this chapter and gave me their honest opinions before I published this. I'd also like to thank everyone who has commented. I've received so much truly humbling and encouraging feedback that I don't know how to act. I am just ... beyond thankful. All I can do as 'thanks' is to continue this. Honestly, this story was going to be only 2 or 3 chapters long and I had zero plot. ZERO. There is no structure at all and I'm always amazed when I manage to forge a small story out of it. It feels like a miracle honestly!
> 
> Somehow though? Honestly? I've grown very attached to this story. I've been writing fanfics for a few years now and this is the first fic that I actually felt anything for. I won't go into why, I don't think I have an adequate answer.
> 
> Anyhow ~ big hearts uwus and all of my love if you're reading this story and enjoy it. I cannot, in my lifetime, tell people how much it means to me when someone likes my writing.
> 
> Lots & lots of big love,  
> ~ Valentine
> 
> P.S. I post queen stuff on twitter @larryiurex, and queen art on IG @vyalentine ~ I'd be thrilled to hear from you ♥


	6. Chapter 6

Freddie squeezed the antiquated oak door closed as quietly as he could; pausing to listen a moment for any evidence of being heard after his sprint toward the loo.

Nothing. Blessedly.

Allowing himself to finally exhale, he takes survey of present circumstances. First and foremost, before he can manage any diplomatic reparation, he really needs to take care of the situation. The situation in his _shorts._

_“Fuck,”_ he mouths, soundlessly. Frustratedly. He worries at his lip, turning over his limited options in his head. He could either A) will away yet another relentless fucking hard-on that’s been harassing him for nearly an entire day now; or B) jerk off, in just as little (or as much) time.

Aside from all these decisions, he simply doesn’t want it on his mind anymore. It’s distracting and makes him feel a bit … _lewd_. Uncomfortably so. He feels a little like he’s subconsciously pressuring John into something, despite how obvious John has made it that he’s very, very much enjoying their new affairs.

Freddie rolls his eyes upward, pulling in a deep breath. There really was no point in putting it off any longer; being this horny was making it difficult to think straight. 

_Straight._

He nearly laughs out loud at the thought of it. He was definitely feeling anything but fucking _straight._ And so, he resigns himself to jerking off in a cramped, musty smelling, outdated bathroom. There are even _framed_ pictures of geese on the wallpapered walls, everything in the enclosure seemed to mock him. 

_If I close my eyes, none of this exists,_ he tells himself. “ _Out of sight, out of mind,_ ” was his usual mantra anyhow, for most things in life.

It doesn’t take long. 

He’d been achingly hard all morning and this was no exception. With a shaky sigh he tips his head back against the door, then puts his full body weight on it. His thoughts don’t need to stray far, just moments ago he’d watched John fall apart in ecstasy just beneath him. _God,_ it was beautiful to see. He pushes down his shorts to about mid-thigh and tugs his shirt up to hold the fabric between his teeth. It turned him on seeing his own body hair when he touched himself. He loved seeing body hair, wet from fluids (whatever they may be) in this context. Before he’d had any _actual_ opportunities to experiment with men, he’d often spit on his chest while jerking off, imagining it was … something else entirely. The visual stimulation was heavenly. You make do with what you have.

He bites his inner cheek, imagining those _delicious,_ sinful noises John made. His cock is leaking heavily, he smears the wetness down and around his shaft, then grips himself. The shirt between his teeth barely muffling the weak whimper that slips out, finally feeling direct stimulation after so much excitation and delay.

What does it, really, is the memory of their first kiss and how much tension was behind it. How much thought John had put into it. But mostly, it was John taking what he wanted. Just thinking of it made him blush.

God, no, it does not take long.

Tremors rip through him as the first wave of his climax hit. His eyes roll back and the edge of his shirt tumbles from his lips. A deep groan escapes him as his hand is covered in warm semi-opaque wetness, it slips between his fingers. _“John,”_ he exhales through gritted teeth, jerking rather loudly through the last peak of his orgasm. He watches every second of it. Freddie shudders and slides down the door a bit, nearly losing his balance. He steadies himself by gripping the doorknob.

Panting against the door in the immediate aftermath, he feels a little embarrassed. Suddenly the framed geese seem too pure to have witnessed such indecency. He hadn’t counted on his orgasm being so powerful. But maybe he should’ve, it had been an abnormally long time since he’d had any release.

After his senses return to normal, Freddie cleans up quickly, there’s really no time to bask in delight thinking about current events. But, _God,_ what a mess. He’d gotten evidence on his shirt. 

_Shit._ Lots of evidence. 

“Oh, my Goddddd,” he breathes out in annoyance. He pulls it off, rinsing it clean in the sink, then drapes it over the shower curtain rod to dry. He decides he’ll deal with it later. Surely nobody would care or even question this. He takes a piss then hesitates, deciding whether to flush or not. He chooses to flush, hoping against hope that it flushes noiselessly. He didn’t want to be disgusting, after all. He quickly washes his hands and brushes his teeth, too.

With his bony hands on his now shirtless hips, he looks in the mirror, mentally preparing himself for the questioning. He sighs, grumbling “Fuck it. Whatever.” He hits the lights and turns to leave. 

Deciding he doesn’t even care anymore, he goes to his room and changes clothes without even trying to be sneaky. He supposes he’d mostly been initially sneaky due to the boner he’d been trying to smuggle to the bathroom. He’s got the luck of the devil of course, and thankfully, nobody seems to notice his lone sojourn.

~ ~ ~

Freddie emerges from the hallway, peeking his head around the corner to see Brian’s mass of curls from behind. He’s got his nose & mind deep in a book.

_What would normal Freddie say?_ He decides against pondering on it too long and goes with the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Oh, good morning Brian,” Freddie struts toward the kitchen, pretending nothing was out of the ordinary. He figured he’d just make tea and toast and casually bullshit his entire way through this.

Brian’s eyes snap up with surprise and he claps his book closed, jumping from his chair. “Freddie! My God, where have you been?”

“What do you mean, dear?” He doesn’t even turn around to look at him, preparing a kettle to boil water for tea. 

“Roger and I have been worried sick over you all morning! Where were you?” Brian trots to the kitchen to continue his interrogation.

Freddie turns around and fiddles with the toaster (finally realizing it just wasn’t plugged in), giving Brian a curious look. “Worried sick … what for? I was right here, darling, what are you talking about?” He shoves two pieces of bread in and pushes them down with a harsh buzz. He crosses his arms and peers into the toaster, deliberately avoiding Brian’s piercing gaze.

“Freddie … you weren’t in your room.”

“Oh, well of course I wasn’t.” Brian blinks, pinching his brows together waiting for an explanation. “I was in John’s room. I fell asleep there.” Freddie scratches his head, continuing to stare into the red glow of the toaster.

The guitarist eyes him incredulously, with the slight, distinct air of skeptical confusion.

Noticing that Brian hasn’t replied, Freddie dared to meet his gaze. “What?” Freddie chuckles. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Err, _nothing ..._ I suppose. But your bedroom is literally across the hall from his ...?” The shadow of a doubt clouds his eyes, Freddie can’t help but recognize it.

Freddie guffaws. “And what about it!”

“Were you really _that_ tired?” 

Freddie turns his attention to the stove again, he’d lit the wrong element and nearly burnt a nearby pot holder. He briefly considers just letting the house burn down to escape Brian’s irritating interrogation.

“Yes, Brian! I _was!_ What is so hard to believe? You know we were up very late. Later than you, even.” He’s getting frustrated with the curly haired man already, but this is also exactly what he’d expected.

“Okay but _why_ were you even in there long enough to _fall_ asleep. Or, be in any position, to fall asleep?”

“Jesus, Brian!”

“Did you sleep in his bed?”

Freddie closes his eyes, pressing his lips together tautly. He’d nearly replied _“Well, yes, I was invited to after all,”_ haughtily, but stifled his tongue just in time when he was startled by the loud metallic pop of the toaster finishing its heated duty.

“Brian. _Sweetheart._ It’s no more complicated than I’ve already told you, dear. Would you rather hear that we stayed up all morning snogging? I know what you’re insinuating. I simply fell asleep.”

Brian appears to want to say something but shuts his mouth just as quickly as he’d opened it.

“And it’s none of your business, besides.” 

Brian raises his brows (and his hands) in surrender. “Alright, Fred I’m sorry, I’m just glad you’re okay. We were really worried about you.” It didn’t escape him that Freddie would normally respond sarcastically or make a crass sex joke, but he seemed oddly defensive.

_Oh, lord._ He didn’t even want to give that idea any credence.

With silver bracelets clinking, Freddie spreads some butter and jam on the toast, then sits daintily at the kitchen table. He’s hoping Brian will be done yammering at him soon. He’s still got to face the wrath of Roger before he can go collect John. Freddie sighs, trying to put this better in perspective instead of being a brat. As natural as this all feels to _him,_ this kind of thing really was, well … quite dangerous. Not that he wanted to admit that to anyone (including himself.)

“That’s very sweet, dear, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.” He smiles at Brian, genuinely. It does mean a lot to him that they’d worried, even if it was a bit smothering and annoying. “Next time I sleep at Deaky’s I’ll leave you guys a note.” He crunches into his toast and doesn’t bother to look at Brian’s expression this time.

_“Oh,_ Fred.” Brian sighs. Freddie winks at him, he shakes his head in response and goes back to the living room to continue reading.

The kettle whistles and the singer gets up to tend to it and prepare his tea. Roger materializes just moments later, correctly assuming Freddie would be the only one making tea.

“Wellllllll, well! Look what the cat puked up.”

Freddie scoffs, assuming it was commentary on the horrid state of his hair. “Good morning, _Roger,”_ Freddie glances at him over his shoulder, rolling his eyes. It was more playful than mean.

“Care to do any explaining?” Roger asks smugly. Freddie wants to throttle him. He can’t exactly talk about this out loud right now with Brian right in the next room, but he also knows that Brian thinks Roger is just as cluelessly curious as he had been as to Freddie’s whereabouts.

Freddie smirks at the drummer. “Oh, Brian told me you had been worried. I fell asleep in John’s room. All is fine! I’m sorry to have worried you, love.” Freddie steeps his tea, then scoots over to the table where Roger languidly sits with arms crossed, looking quite amused. _What a bitch._ Under his breath, he whispers hastily over his tea, “Roger, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Please … just, don’t give John any shit about this.”

“About _what?”_ Freddie gives him a particularly pointed and dramatic eye roll. “Freddie. Give me details.”

He kicks Roger under the table playfully. “No! Absolutely not!”

“How big is it?” Roger narrows his eyes and waggles his eyebrows, grinning wide. He’s enjoying the hell out of this. Freddie wipes his hands together loudly, dropping crumbs everywhere. He swallows his final bite to make room for all the rude words he wants to fit in his mouth.

If Roger was going to be a shithead, Freddie decided he would be, too. 

“Oh, my God, Roger. You can’t even imagine. It’s gigantic. Simply enormous.” Roger scrunches his face, wishing Freddie wasn’t so keen to be horrible. Freddie demonstrates the (falsified) size of it with his hands with wide awestruck eyes. “It’s an absolute aubergine, darling. I have no idea how I’m going to fit it all in my mouth.” The drummer is overcome by a dramatic, fake wave of nausea. Freddie laughs, then slaps his upper arm. “You asked, you silly tart! What did you expect me to say?"

"I'm think I'm going to be sick," Roger puffs up his cheeks and furrows his brows.

"It serves you right. But _please_ Roger, promise me, do _not_ make a spectacle out of this for John, okay? Your love letter left him completely gobsmacked.”

Roger nods, still looking horribly disgusted. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll behave. For _John._ You owe me though, _Freddie.”_ He steals Freddie’s other slice of toast with an air of disdain. Freddie lets him. The singer is very much aware that his debts to Roger are piling up. A singular toast isn’t worth it.

“Thank you so much, darling.”

The two are having a full on whisper conversation. Brian thinks he hears them whispering, but not what _about._ He decides he probably doesn’t want to know. Freddie and Roger are always getting into stupid mischief. As long as he didn’t have to bail them out, he didn’t mind if they had their injokes. Perhaps he _was_ a bit jealous of their rapport though.

Roger suddenly bangs his palm on the table, startling Freddie. “Oh, shit! Speaking of cat puke, Brian says there’s a kitty out by the barn.”

Freddie’s eyes blow wide and he inhales his hot tea too fast, causing him to cough wildly for a minute. “What!? ... Brian!” he suddenly shouts, a tickle in his throat making the name sound like a croak at the end.

“What is it Fred? Are you okay?”

“Yes yes, I’m fine, dear. I hear you found a cat by the barn?”

“I did, you should bring him a treat.”

Freddie claps excitedly, his shoulders are scrunched and he squeals. “A cat, how wonderful!” he says, mostly to himself. He decides to pay it a visit later. 

“I thought you’d like hearing that,” Roger jubilates, proud to be the deliverer of second hand news that made his friend smile. The cigarette dangling from between his lips distorted his words a bit, however. He rifles and pats around in his jacket pockets, seeking a lighter. Freddie notices one on the table and hands it to him.

“You were right. Here you go, dear.” 

“Thanks, Fred. Care to join me?” 

“No thanks Rogie, I have to go take care of something.” 

Roger muffles a laugh, his shoulders shaking from the effort. “Something with your mouth, then. Gotcha.”

Freddie doesn’t reply (verbally, at least). His smirk and narrowed twinkling eyes tell the drummer anything he might (or might _not)_ want to know though. Freddie gets up sporting a big grin. He dusts the crumbs off of his body and excuses himself to go collect John, now that peace has been restored in the household.

~ ~ ~

He knocks, then cracks the door to peer in. “John?” He glances in to see John fully dressed in an orange ringer t-shirt and dark blue corduroy trousers, lying on top of his (now made) bed with his arms crossed behind his head.

“Oh, hey Freddie,” he smiles at the singer, yawning. Somehow this ordeal had taken a solid half hour, and John found himself already missing his companion. He was fighting off drowsiness, but had to pee pretty badly.

Freddie slips in and closes the door behind himself. He rushes over, hopping onto the bed, landing in a sitting position beside the bassist to tell him everything. “Look at you! Oh hell, you’re so damned cute.” Freddie has to resist the urge to lie beside him and cover him in kisses. He settles for holding his hand and caressing it softly.

“Shut up!” John grins, blushing a little at the compliment. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to Freddie’s sweet compliments. “Tell me, what happened?”

“It was a bit of a hassle explaining shit to Brian, but everything’s fine. And Roger has agreed to behave and not make a spectacle. I promise you, there’s nothing to fret over.”

“But what did you tell Brian?”

“The truth. Basically.”

John felt all the blood leave his face, and Freddie did indeed notice that he suddenly looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Oh lord, honey, no! Not _that_ part of the truth. I told him I simply fell asleep in your room, nothing more than that. I played it off like it was casual.” Freddie can’t help but lean down to kiss the worry off of John’s sweet face.

“Mmh. Well that is true … you did fall asleep here,” he smiles, allowing himself to be smothered a bit before returning Freddie’s fluttery kisses. 

Freddie sits back up. “I don’t have a good excuse for being here behind closed doors _now,_ however.”

John frowns, sitting up. “Yeah, I suppose I _should_ drag my carcass out there and get it over with.”

“It’ll be fine dear, just pretend that everything is normal,” he says with a wink and an affectionate arm squeeze. Freddie gets up to leave, but John takes his hand before he gets too far. The light tug causes Freddie to turn around.

“I wish this _were_ considered normal, Freddie,” he says with a half-smile. For some reason, Freddie's use of the word 'pretend' bothered him a bit. It was a harsh reminder that this might all slip away just as quickly as it started. He knew Freddie didn't mean it that way ... but he couldn't just _stop_ his thoughts.

Freddie covers John’s hand with his other. “I do too, sweetheart,” he whispers. “We only just kissed last night though. We have time. Maybe this _will_ be _normal_ one day.”

“Perhaps ...” he trails off. John doesn’t know why, or maybe doesn’t want to address it with himself yet, but suddenly this conversation feels strangely heavy and starts to make him sting inside. He attempts fighting it.

Freddie doesn’t seem to notice the slight shift in mood. John hadn’t expected him to.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of exciting though, darling?”

“What? I’m sorry, Freddie I … got a little lost in thought.” He drops Freddie’s hand. For some reason a part of him is feeling very vulnerable and a sense of needing to temper his expectations rolls over him like a low, ominous fog. He didn’t think he’d had expectations. And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just feeling a little confused and detestably defenseless right now. He blinks furiously, brows knitted. His inner turmoil roils within.

He wants some time alone to process his feelings, but now is not the time for it. He takes a deep breath. Now is really and truly not the time for this shit. He physically shakes his head, manually pulling himself out of it.

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” he sits down next to the bassist. “John sweetheart … are you alright?” Freddie pushes a lock of hair behind John’s ear. As much as he wants to melt into Freddie’s gentle touch, there’s a small part of him that scolds himself for feeling like he’s worthy of such a thing. 

_"Don’t get used to this, John,"_ the cruel demon that resides inside of him tacitly reitterates. Actually, now that he's thinking of it, perhaps it was a guardian angel. John does his best to nod and look unbothered, but he can’t meet Freddie’s concerned gaze.

Freddie drapes an arm around him. “Darling, look at me, please.” 

The younger man tips his head to look at him, raking his bottom lip between his teeth after a deep inhale.

Freddie suddenly looks solemn. “Are you … regretting what we did?”

John shakes his head no, vigorously. “No, God no. Regret is the farthest thing from my mind.” His reaction makes Freddie’s heart sing with relief, but he contains it.

“Have I hurt you somehow?” 

Freddie’s concern makes him feel a little guilty. Part of his brain says this worry is valid, the other part tells him to shut up and stop being an idiot. “No, Freddie, nothing like that … it’s nothing, really. Everything is fine. We should get going, yes?” He starts to stand up, planting his knuckles into the mattress for leverage.

“John. Wait.” Freddie stands, grasping his shoulder. “Please don’t bullshit me. I know when _‘nothing’_ actually means _‘something’._ ”

He turns to face Freddie, worry is written all over his beautiful features. John instantly feels like a selfish, whiny shit.

“Fuck. I’m sorry Freddie,” he scratches his head. “Please don’t worry. I don’t know what came over me. A mood swing, I guess …. it’s nothing, it happens sometimes. I’m just a silly melancholy boy, you know.” He grins weakly.

The singer looks into his eyes, trying to read his expression for a moment, then pulls him in for a hug. He caresses his back, perching a chin on his shoulder. “You can talk to me, John. About anything at all.”

“Thank you Freddie … you’re a really good friend to me.” John finds himself inhaling, sure that these moments needed to be etched into his memory and preserved for eternity.

Freddie pulls away to look into his unreadable face again. He can’t shake the feeling that John isn’t telling him something. A saucerful of secrets, indeed, this one.

Unexpectedly, John brings his palms up to hold Freddie’s face on both sides, then kisses him ardently. He threads his fingers through Freddie’s hair, settling his hands at the nape of his neck. Freddie is surprised initially and lets out a raspy hum, but he quickly catches on and keeps pace. “How …” the bassist breathes out between kisses. “How will I keep myself away from you all day? I don’t want to. I can’t. I won’t.”

Freddie smiles devilishly, “We’ll have to be crafty dear, it will be fun. You’ll see.” 

John growls against his lips, chuckling. “Wrap your legs around me.”

“What? How?” He blinks, amused and already getting flustered.

“Mmm, just try." He smiles impishly. "I want to see if it's possible.”

Freddie drapes his arms around John’s neck, then hitches a leg up. John hoists Freddie with a grunt, he’s able to do it with surprisingly little effort. John’s got a firm grip on his ass and Freddie doesn’t feel like he’ll fall. The singer fights a blush spreading across his face, overcome by how strong and sure John is. No, the bassist is _definitely_ not shy in matters of lust, and to Freddie, it is exquisite. Nothing was more exciting to him than being _seduced._ And seduction didn’t have to be fancy or graceful. He finds himself hating that he could’ve had this all along, perhaps. Whatever _this_ … was, exactly. Freddie didn’t care about the label per se, he only cared that it was finally happening. John proving to be quite a passionate and virile lover was just a bonus. An enormous bonus. It was better than he ever imagined, and they’d barely done more than kiss.

With Freddie lovingly wrapped around him like a human duvet cover, John ferries him until Freddie finds his back being gently flattened against a wall. John smiles, quite pleased with how well this was going. He presses himself against the singer, pinning him to the wall, effectively.

Freddie’s usually so full of stinging sass and sarcastic remarks, but he finds himself strangely commentless. He becomes acutely aware of his own hard breathing. John isn’t making any moves, he’s just … holding him there, observing. 

He smiles, feeling a bit chuffed. “Mmmhmmhm. You’re rather easy, Freddie. I'm a little surprised.”

“For you, yes, it seems so. I—”

“Shh,” John kisses him softly on the mouth. “Look up.”

He looks at him inquisitively, a quirky pout on his lips. “At what?”

“Just look up please, I want to suck on your neck, if … that's alright.”

Once again, Freddie doesn’t know what to say, but a shiver pulls at the edges of his spine upon hearing the words. He obeys, his eyes falling shut as if magnetized by lust, and John’s warm lips find him. The bassist’s breathy groans on his neck have him panting in very little time. 

Freddie really is easy for John, he wasn’t kidding. If they hadn’t already been such good friends (or perhaps if they hadn't prolonged this agonizing crush for years), Freddie might’ve been embarrassed by the fact. And, for possibly the first time in his life, he allowed himself to surrender to that particular kind of vulnerability. The kind that erased his defenses and left him not caring if he appeared needy for a person.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” John mumbles into the soft skin of his neck, grinding hard against Freddie. His lips and tongue leave two dark circles on the singer; one just under the left side of his jaw, and the other near the base of his throat. John hates it, but the fact is that he’s got another hard-on. He presses himself against Freddie, making it no secret. Freddie moans in response, he really wants to rip John’s clothes off and take him into his mouth. The thought utterly consumes him.

John lets go of Freddie’s legs gently, letting him slide down his body until he’d found stable footing. The lust radiating from Freddie’s expression was nearly frightening. “John … I,” Freddie licks his lips, blinking quickly. He feels a little light headed. He really was breathing too fast.

“Mmmh?”

“I shouldn’t say it. _Fuck._ Damn it.” He shakes his head, his fluffy hair tickling John’s face. "I'm sorry."

“What is it Freddie?” He kisses him, softly. It quickly turns into a passionate, deep kiss. He bites the singer’s bottom lip ever so gently. “Just ... tell me what you want. Whatever it is.” He says, breathlessly. John’s looking at his lips and giving him bedroom eyes. It’s almost too much for Freddie to bear.

Freddie is fighting an unseen war in his head. The combatants are few. Their names are _“taking it slow,”_ and _“tell him you want to suck his cock right fucking now.”_ Oh, and of course, a cameo of _“fuck me right here against the wall."_

He reckons it takes an internal battalion to not voice these desire. The singer presses his eyelids shut with a pained expression. He exhales shakily.

John giggles. “Is it really that difficult?” He pulls gently on Freddie’s long black hair, exposing his neck to his greedy mouth once again. Freddie whimpers as John licks, swirling his tongue and sucking lightly, but noisily, here and there. The feeling of John’s warm slippery lips and tongue on his neck while his hair was being pulled sends enticing jolts of erotic wildfire throughout him.

Freddie’s limbs aren’t obeying him. He slides his hands up under the front side of John’s shirt, caressing his soft chest. The need for tactile stimulation while John was doing _that_ to him was undeniable. Freddie bites his lip, allowing his shoulders to droop forward a bit. He groans, frustrated. _“Shit._ It is, darling. It really is.”

John lowers himself a bit, exhaling through his teeth—the gentle rush of warm air finds Freddie’s earlobe. The singer shivers at the feeling. “I’ll give you _what-ev-er_ you want,” John whispers in staccato fashion, directly into Freddie’s ear.

Freddie groans, all of his body hair stands on end and a shiver rips through him. “Fuck. Oh my God. Shit.” The singer is suddenly very present and lucid, already bargaining with himself. He’s unbelievably turned on, but now completely pulled out of his hazy stupor. 

This was too much. It was too … decadent. Overwhelming. Fast. Freddie did not expect this kind of restraint from himself (once again). Saying _no,_ when he really wanted it, was definitely new territory for him. He pushes John away by the shoulders, as sweetly and apologetically as possible.

“Honey ... listen.” Freddie curses, he looks like he wants to cry. It’s obvious he does not want to stop. “We can’t … no, _shouldn’t_ … do this yet.”

“Why not, Freddie?” John asks, casting his eyes downward. “Is it me?”

“No. Absolutely not. It’s me. John … you know why. I just think we should be careful … and sure. This is not fucking easy for me either.”

“But Freddie ... I want you. I want you so badly I can’t stand it. I want to touch you. I want you to touch me. I want all of it.” Freddie cautiously glances at him, visibly gulping at the implications. “Yes, _all of it._ I mean it.”

Freddie sighs quietly. “Oh honey. You will, you’ll have it.” He widens his eyes with a deft, but slow and resolute nod. “I want the very same. I just think we need to slow this down a bit.”

John looks pained and Freddie hates it. He pulls his chin up to look him in the eye. “This isn’t rejection, sweetheart. Make no mistake. I want to do things with you I’m too embarrassed to say out loud.”

John bites his lip again, giving the singer a plaintive, but also somehow defiant look.

Freddie puts his arms around his neck and speaks into his hair. “I _know_ we’re both adults John, it’s not like that. This is purely a matter of ... well, me caring about you.” He pulls his face out of John’s hair to look him in the eye. “I’ve fucked up enough in my life and I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve hurt a lot of people. Do you understand?”

John sighs. Freddie’s assertion was both a portent and a comfort. John’s not sure whether to feel special or apprehensive.

“I do. I appreciate that you care Freddie … but damn is it hard holding back.” He lightly presses his forehead against Freddie’s then looks toward the floor. The singer twirls the long tresses framing John’s troubled face around his two pointer fingers, then gently kisses his lips. He lets go of his hair in order to hold John’s hand between his own, lacing their fingers together. He kisses the back of John’s palm apologetically. Freddie really does feel like shit about this—but his own fear of himself outweighs everything.

“You’re telling me, I'm sorry sweetheart.” He exhales audibly. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. Let’s forget this for now, we have plenty of time to work on "us". How about we … gather picnic supplies? Would you like to go on a picnic date with me, sweetheart?”

“Please don't apologize, Freddie. I understand. And of course. I’d love that.”

“Come on. Let’s go out there and get this situation sorted out, then we can have a romantic lunch by that big tree out past the barn. Or dinner. Let’s just see what we need.”

“That sounds perfect.” John smiles meekly, feeling mildly bashful about how purely romantic the idea was. He presses a soft kiss to Freddie’s cheek, just below his right eye. 

He suddenly scowls. “Freddie. What’s this scar from? I’ve been wondering.” He brushes his thumb over the faint mark.

“Oh, that? It’s from my days as a boxer.”

“A boxer?” John squints at him, perplexed.

“Can you believe it dear? I used to fight. _Me!_ I used to beat up bratty little boys when I lived near Bombay.”

“I can’t imagine. That’s so ... _macho._ Are you serious?”

“Yes. And I was good at it. One time in school a kid provoked me into a fight by saying nasty things. I beat his arse. The other kids watching blamed it on me and as punishment the school made me cut my hair. I was miserable. I vowed to never cut it again.”

John laughs. “And did you keep that vow?”

“Oh God, no.” Freddie’s eyes widen with emphasis. “It was pretty long and unruly in college. And dreadfully curly. I got it trimmed up nice and proper. I regretted it, instantly.”

“You’re so ridiculous, Freddie.”

Freddie laughs boisterously. “Excuse me! What does that say about you then, dear?”

John almost says something he’d surely regret, or at best, make things weird. He settles on “Apparently I have shitty taste in men.”

“Oh fuck you!” He laughs, breaking free from John, then turning around to pull him toward the door. “Try me, I’ll give you a shiner if you fuck with me. See what happens.”

“You’re so cute Freddie. Precious.” 

“Excuse me! Aren’t you scared, darling?” 

John laughs, nodding. “I’m quaking in my boots.” 

“As you should be.” 

“You’re about as scary as a kitten.”

“Kittens have claws and teeth too, you know. Just shut up and kiss me.” John’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly amused. “We won’t be able to kiss again for a while, I assume.”

“Mmm. No.” John smirks. “I refuse,” he declares, crossing his arms over his chest smugly.

“Oh, you bastard! Are you serious? I _hate_ you.” He pouts, playfully.

“Do you really want to deal with more boners right now Freddie?” 

“Shit. Good point. Okay dear, let’s go.”

For the time being, John allowed himself a helping of cautious optimism. As fleeting as everything _good_ in his life was, he thought he’d try and banish those warnings and memories. At least, for today.

~ ~ ~

John follows Freddie to the living room after a quick pop into the loo. They’re alone for now. Freddie wastes no time, taking inventory of supplies for their picnic date. 

“Would you get a pen dear? I need you to make a list.”

“Okey.” John pushes himself away from the counter to rummage in the junk drawer. He finds a pen and a scrap of paper pretty quickly.

“Hm. We need … a basket. Would it be weird to use something else? I reckon it would.” 

John writes “ _Basket???”_

“What are you in the mood to eat darling?”

“Um,” John tries to think of picnic appropriate things. “Sandwiches. Crisps. Umm … biscuits? Celery? Erm ... pudding? French bread? Or maybe croissants.” He taps his pen on the list. “Ham.” He chews on the pencap, deep in thought. "Would beans be weird?" He trails his gaze over to Freddie, who has a finger on his lip, studying the contents of the fridge.

Freddie turns around slowly to look at him amusedly. “So you’re really hungry then, eh John?”

“Oh shut up, you! I’m just listing ideas.” He laughs. “God Freddie, I swear.”

Freddie chuckles. “Okay so, how about … ham and cheese sandwiches. On croissants. We can pick some up at the bakery. Maybe pick up some sweets there, too.”

John jots everything down, nodding. “Yes, lovely.”

“Oh!” Freddie claps. “Let’s have some champagne.”

“The _Killer Queen_ variety?” Freddie sighs, he knows what’s coming. “The _moway?”_

“Yes, you arse, the _moway.”_

“Sorry Fred, it’s too easy.” He nearly falls down laughing.

“Tch. You’re such a bitch.” Freddie fumes, though he’s not serious.

“Did someone say _moway?”_ Roger saunters in.

_“No.”_ Freddie says plainly while sipping from a glass of water. "You're hearing things, dear." The bassist tries desperately to hold in a laugh.

Roger laughs. “You know, I knew how to say it right. I just thought it was funny that you were so insistent on saying it wrong.” 

Freddie shakes his head with a very dramatic, eyelid fluttering eye roll. John laughs, he can’t hold it this time. It sputters out of him in a weird grunt.

“Oh! Hey Deaky! How are you feeling mate?” Roger leans against the counter next to him. Ever observant, he notices two hickeys on Freddie, yet none on John. He chooses to keep his lips sealed, but he can't stop himself from raising his eyebrows.

“Hello Roger, very well, thank you.”

“What’s the list about?” He leans over and squints at the list, trying to decipher John's enigmatic writing.

“We’re going on a picnic. Help us think of what to bring, darling.” Freddie interjects.

“A picnic? Are you having it here? Can I come?” 

Freddie and John exchange a hesitant look. 

“Oh—I see,” Roger picks up on it immediately. “It’s a _romantic_ picnic. Why didn’t you say so? Give me the list.”

He jots wildly. John is afraid to see what he’s writing. Freddie is already giving the drummer a shitty look with crossed arms.

“There.” He hands the pen and list back to John, who laughs out loud but turns red anyhow after reading what he’d written. Of course, the bastard had written exactly what was expected of him.

_Single rose (and vase)._

_Chocolates_

_Lube_

_Raw eggs_

_“Raw eggs?”_ John can’t stop laughing.

“What on Earth? Let me see that,” Freddie pushes himself between them to look at it.

“I don’t know, it’s your weird picnic. Odd that you’d only question the eggs ... I’m just saying.”

Freddie swats at him, hoping he’ll bugger off. “Just go away, you! My God.”

Roger makes a devilish face and slaps Freddie on the back. “What! I think it’s a good list!”

“Well it is dear, but we have no need for eggs.”

Roger winces. “I suppose I deserve this. Please spare me, Fred. I’m going out! I’ll see you tossers later.”

“Pick me up some condoms while you’re in town Roger?” The bassist closes his eyes, awaiting the worst of it. What else can he do? He knows saying anything at all will only perpetuate the torture.

“Sure, extra small, then?”

“Oh they’re not for me, dear.” He mouths the word _aubergine_ with raised eyebrows _._ “Get the biggest ones you can find.”

John wants to flash a peace sign and disappear completely. He doesn’t think he’s ever turned _completely_ red. He can feel the blood burning in his cheeks. He chuckles quietly, it shakes his body in that particular way that only quiet, defeated chuckling does.

Roger finds it funny (and telling) that neither of them bother to deny any of this. “Well, goodbye. I’ll be in the River Thames. Please retrieve my corpse when you’re sure I’m dead. Alright then? Cheerio!” He escapes, nearly trotting toward the front door.

Freddie laughs effervescently after him. Oh, how he adores winning their gross-out competitions. He turns around and wrinkles his nose at John. “I’m sorry, sweetie. That was quite vulgar."

“He deserved it. I’ll recover.” John says with a wink.

Freddie scoots over and kisses him sweetly on the cheek. "I'm so grateful you're a good sport, dear."

"Yes, quite. You're very lucky."

They hear a door shut from the hallway and Freddie teleports to the other side of the kitchen, John is impressed by his speed and grace. “So yes, errr ... where were we?”

Brian had heard the front door slam shut and thought he’d check out the ruckus, but the spotting of Deaky made him forget his crusade.

“John! How nice to see you. Are you feeling better today?” Brian blinks, holding his gaze. He looks quite concerned.

“Yes, thank you Brian, I’m feeling much better now.” That was not a lie.

“Oh that's wonderful, I’m happy to hear it. You've seemed a little off lately, I was worried."

"I think I just needed some good sleep." That was also not a lie. But it was only the surface issue, of course.

"Is that a list?” Brian crosses his arms and attempts to peer down at the list. John drops it to his side and attempts to make that seem natural. He doesn’t want Brian to see the things Roger had written. _But then again,_ he reckons, _Roger is always being disgusting anyhow and this isn’t really out of the norm._ He finds himself acknowledging how odd it feels to be hiding things from his friends. It doesn’t sit well with him but he couldn’t think of a softer alternative.

“Yes, Freddie and I are having a picnic on the grounds here later. It's a list of supplies.”

“That sounds idyllic. I’m headed to the camera shop to drop off some film to be developed, do you guys need me to pick anything up?”

“Oh, would you mind terribly? Thank you so much Bri. I’ll owe you one.” Freddie takes the list, making sure to scratch out Roger’s contributions before handing it to him. “We need pastries too, but we can just walk to the local bakery before they close.”

“Of course, it’s not a problem.”

“Hold on, dear. Let me go get you some cash.” Freddie dashed to his room to retrieve his billfold.

John smiled to himself at Freddie’s use of the word _“we.”_ He knew it wasn’t a rarely used word, in regards to them especially, but it still made him happy. He didn’t ever want to be away from Freddie, he wanted it to always be “ _we.”_ At least here on the farm it made that easier. Less to do. Less people to know, etc. They were basically anonymous and John loved it. He knew it made Freddie antsy though. 

He, on the contrary, was content to stay here forever most likely.

Freddie was back in a flash, brandishing a wad of bills. “I haven’t counted it but I’m sure it’s enough. Keep the change if there is any.” 

“Alright Freddie, thanks. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“We’ll stay here, Roger’s just left too.”

Brian stops. "Where did Roger get off to?"

"Not sure, he didn't say. Take the extra set of keys though, we might not hear the door when you return."

Brian nods then holds his palm up, gesturing for Freddie to toss them to him, and he does. He gestures a “gotcha” type of two fingered salute after catching them, and leaves. He decides to walk, it’s balmy outside, but not too hot yet and the camera shop isn’t too far.

The instant Brian crosses the threshold and is definitely _gone,_ Freddie wastes no time latching himself onto John, kissing the side of his face repeatedly, in comedically desperate fashion.

“This really _is_ difficult, darling.” Freddie whines between kisses.

Hugging Freddie closer, John just shuts his eyes and smiles, allowing his face to be smothered. Another moment to etch into his memory landscape, certainly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter wasn't too dull! I am a sucker for the extremely domestic. Thank you if you're still reading this ♥ and I'm sorry my updates aren't huge and seem to be glacially slow ... writing is actually very difficult for me. I've been /mostly/ done with this chapter for eons but a chain of unforeseen fire-related and traveling circumstances kept me from writing the last push.
> 
> ALSO; I realize this chapter starts out nearly /exactly/ like the most recently posted chapter of A Night to Forget, but I promise I've been working on this for nearly a month and it's just a strange and terrible coincidence. If you know how my last chapter ended, it was kinda ... inevitable, I think? But aghh, what a bad feeling.
> 
> PS ~ I've been drawing a bit of deacury lately, if you'd like to see it, I post it at valentinesebastianbach on IG ♥


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picnic time ♥

As difficult as it was to ignore the demons in his head, Freddie somehow refrained from pestering John about joining him in the shower. He diligently waited for his turn, deciding to try and distract himself by tearing his closet apart looking for something cute to wear for their first ‘date’. Even Freddie himself found it kind of funny that he managed to lug along most of his entire wardrobe to the farm. Sometimes he thought it might be easier to have _less_ choice when it came to clothing, but that sounded dreadfully boring.

He pulled his rings off, irreverently plunking them onto a dish on the dresser. He briefly considered rings, imagining giving one to John. He quickly hushed that stupid thought.

It _irritated_ him that he was so very precious about this _… thing …_ already. On one hand, it’d been brewing within him at a dull roar, a roiling undercurrent seeping into his psyche for literal years; but on the other … it was also brand new and he couldn’t take his mind off of it. He was straddling new and old and it left him a bit bewildered. He’d never dealt with something quite like this before.

And Freddie knew he was guilty. Addicted to love, addicted to falling in love, and _completely,_ hopelessly addicted to the pangs, throes and fresh delights of new love in particular. He knew the patterns well and it made him feel like a criminal—much like holding a map, it seemed slightly criminal and it made him ill-at-ease. He didn’t _want_ expectations ... he knew how quickly these things could snowball and slip headlong into a treacherous slope of boundaries, and the utterly terrifying mutual exchange of vulnerabilities. And _those;_ those situations that left one exposed and relying on trusting (what is essentially) a stranger, because they ultimately had no choice to do otherwise; were the _good_ examples. Unless you were the type that enjoyed internal suffering, of course.

Love was reckless, after all.

That raised an intrepid question; had he ever _really_ been in love? He couldn’t be sure. Had there ever been real trust? And for that matter, was it always just him doing all that foolish trusting? He’d thought of himself as a good judge of character but he was always getting burned.

Freddie felt that in most situations, he’d fall for someone that wasn’t impressed by him; at all. And by the time he realized they were just fucking boring or total assholes, the lust had already evaporated. In nearly every case, he’d consider the whole endeavor pointless if the sex wasn’t fun. But why was he doomed to be attracted to such bland, careless, or angry men? It wasn’t that he loved the fighting; he loved the resolution. But, he wasn’t prepared to be honest with himself about that. Freddie didn’t have time for introspection. 

That’s what he told himself, at least.

The irritation partially came from that awareness—if this followed the tried and true pattern, he knew he was doomed. The irritation also arose from the irresistible and incessant pull, too. 

Again; doomed. Fucked. 

He was helpless to it … but it wasn’t _all_ bad, of course. This addiction was rooted in the highs, after all. Even the lowest lows led to the highest highs, and with the shittiest of partners. But how does one remain an objective and rational outsider within his own _certainly_ perilous situation, especially when the recklessness of it all was so fucking alluring? 

He internally debated asking John if he’d pay rent for the block of real estate he’d monopolized in his mind. This wasn’t new by any means, but the intensity and frequency were increasing, and increasingly ridiculous. Freddie knew he was already obsessed, and frankly, it scared the shit out of him. Because as well as he knew the god damned trials and tribulations of relationships, he knew that this was different.

There was no slow crescendo. It was more like an impossible, mocking nothing followed by a violent crash into a concrete wall. Then a warm and quiet comfort, an eerily easy melding of seemingly incredulous things. Laced and tied up prettily with incredible, aching _want,_ of course. Freddie really did not know what to do or how to behave.

With an annoyed huff, he realized he’d been standing stock still in front of the closet, caressing the sleeve of a striped yellow jacket, pondering this nonsense for a ridiculous amount of time. _Shit._ He hadn’t gotten anywhere.

_“What the fuck, Freddie.”_ He whispered to the room, pulling himself out of that contemplative, wistful bullshit. This kind of thing made him wonder who he was doing all this overly dramatic thinking _for._ Was it performative, even if he kept it all in his head? Was he trying to impress _himself_ with his own depth? 

He could only laugh. Or cry, really. A divine comedy, indeed.

He roughly pulled a pair of white twill pants from their hanger. The cut wasn’t bad, but he didn’t particularly love the way they felt on his fingers. However, they made his butt look pretty good and he was hoping to have a certain pair of green-grey eyes on his butt for the occasion. The thought of errant grass stains entered his mind and he quickly put them back, recoiling with sheer repulsion. He eventually put it into perspective that their _date_ was going to be in the backyard, essentially, and that perhaps he should just wear something practical. Or, wishfully thinking, something easy to remove. Freddie felt a rush in his chest at the thought, followed by the prickling heat of his cheeks turning scarlet.

He cocked his head, pondering. Underwear, or no? _Of course underwear, you cretin. My God._ He imagined John wouldn’t mind either way. Not that Freddie … okay fuck it. _Yes,_ he was thinking of those types of things; it was relentless. He dug his fingernails into his palms as his thoughts wandered to giving John a messy blowjob outdoors. Apparently his self service in the loo earlier hadn’t helped much.

Freddie gulped, then screwed his eyelids shut, praying for a shred of unhorny rationality. He’d realized he hadn’t been breathing during that bout of lusting and felt silly for it.

He grabbed a cute, tight, light blue shirt with scalloped edging and some equally tight jeans. If he was going to wear denim, it would have to be denim designed to kill. He was satisfied with his choices.

The sound of a door opening from down the hall startled him. He gasped, hand over heart, before realizing it was John emerging from his shower. A moment later John peeked into Freddie’s room, (already fully dressed, to the singer’s slight dismay) with a small smile.

“Hey,” said John, a sort of amused confusion on his face. He entered the room, then turned to shut the door behind him. He was toweling his hair dry, it was adorable.

Freddie instantly forgot everything ever and trotted over to plant a kiss on his cheek, throwing his arms around him, pulling the towel off of his hair and throwing it onto the bed. “How was your shower, sweetheart?”

“Lovely,” he grinned, he couldn’t stop grinning, actually. “Did I surprise you?” He happily endured Freddie’s smooching assault and wrapped his arms around Freddie’s waist.

“How could you tell, dear?” Freddie nestled his face into John’s neck, his wet drippy hair not bothering him in the least. It was nice and cool on his hot face. It smelled nice. He let it become his entire world for just shy of a minute.

“Your face …” he attempted to continue, but it was clear that Freddie wasn’t listening. His lips were covering John’s before he could elaborate. John chuckled against the singer’s mouth, relaxing into his warm embrace. “Freddie,” he giggled, amused.

“What’s so funny, darling?” Freddie was smiling too. Of course he knew what was _so funny._

“Did you miss me or something?”

“Is it that obvious?” Freddie blinked at him with a cocky smile. 

“I think you’re just horny.” His sassy, smug look did rotten things to the singer.

With a gasp, Freddie stepped back to look at him in faux horror. “I mean, that’s fair … maybe I am … but,”

“But what?” A grin played at the corners of his lips, his eyes had a different expression altogether though.

“I’ve never been _just_ horny. I’m a romantic.”

“What does that even mean Freddie?” He laughed, pulling him back in. “Come here you goof.”

Freddie struggled weakly in fake protest. “God, I don’t even know anymore, but I need to go take a shower. I’m disgusting and my hair is dreadful.”

John held him tight around the waist and wrinkled his nose. “You’re not wrong,” he giggled.

Freddie scoffed. “It’s partially your fault, you know.” Freddie ceased his struggle to aim a pout at him. “And you’re not supposed to agree.” 

“What am I _supposed_ to do, Freddie?” He chortled.

“You’re _supposed_ to say I’m beautiful. No matter what. And that I smell good.” He pulled his chin up regally, peering expectantly at him through a mess of thick black lashes.

John could only laugh. “Since when! You smell awful when you get off-stage. I can’t just lie.” Freddie just continued to glare, then began struggling again to free himself. “And why didn’t you just take a shower with me?”

Freddie’s jaw dropped, causing John to roar in laughter. “You are a tyrant. And a bitch! You know that? Let me go.” He wrestled himself free and made a break for it.

“Oh, you _egg._ I’m just kidding!” He called down the hall after Freddie, who was stomping towards the shower. He left nothing in his wake for John, save a middle finger from behind his back.

John laughed heartily. He decided to sit on Freddie’s bed and wait for him to return, there was no real reason not to. 

Observing his surroundings, he realized he’d never really hung out in there. It was technically fancier than his room, but not as comfortable or as pleasant—that is, without Freddie around at least. Freddie’s cheerful, cheeky presence made any environment inviting and warm. The singer had a way of making any place feel like home. John found himself chewing his bottom lip, wondering if he’d be spending the night in there anytime soon.

With sudden horror, he noticed he’d been sitting on Freddie’s laid out clothes. He jumped up, straightening them as best he could. Subconsciously, he too, started considering his own clothing choices and their removability factor.

Then, he had an idea. An idea that made him blush. He slipped out of Freddie’s room and went to his own.

~ ~ ~ 

When Freddie emerged from his shower (in nothing more than a bathrobe), he’d expected John to be in his room still. He was a bit disappointed to find him gone. He’d hoped for a reason to be a bit of a flirty show-off. Perhaps a bit of subtle “incidental” strip tease.

But alas, no. He’d have to be flirty while _clothed,_ he supposed. Definitely not as fun.

After Freddie had blown dry and tamed his hair, he dressed and re-adorned himself with bangles and necklaces. He applied a fresh coating of nail lacquer, and even put on a light amount of kohl eyeliner for the occasion. He looked stunning, even in dreadful denim.

Freddie brightly pranced out in search of John, who he found comfortably lounging on the red loveseat. The singer did not even hesitate for a split second to sprawl out on his lap luxuriantly, like a pampered cat with not a care in the world.

John’s heart leaped when he got a look at Freddie, now spread across his lap as if he owned it (and honestly he did). He hadn’t seen the singer looking all dolled up in weeks, much less since they’d been intimate. He couldn’t help but notice two faint love marks on his neck. John felt his throat go dry and his heart rate increase. Freddie’s immediate effect on him was nothing short of embarrassing. How and when did he become so malleable, and so easily?

John balked. He was able to just _kiss_ this beautiful creature now, and it really was that easy. How was it possible? The man was simply dazzling, words didn’t even exist for his beauty. His smoky, black-lined eyes had captured John’s mind and thoughts countless times, but those thoughts had never been a solid thing that he would allow himself to chase. It was a fruitless, ultimately painful endeavor. Until now, it had always been foolish and too cruel to even imagine.

Freddie’s beauty had been an aching pest that he’d put on a widely avoided shelf in a far corner of his mind. And having to see him so often only made it worse. Freddie was so effortlessly attractive that John was _never_ content simply appreciating his beauty. He pined for him. He hated it. It made him broody, and God forbid—if people noticed it or asked if he was okay during these rueful tantrums, he was doubly embarrassed.

The longing always came in frustrating waves. The longing for those held-too-long glances to _mean_ something; the longing to hold him and possess him in any kind of physical or mental capacity. He felt selfish, and stupid for it, and his jealousy was a demon.

Freddie’s _endless_ fucking charm really did irritate John, because of course he wasn’t the only one who was fond of him, and Freddie was well aware of his magnetism. Freddie’s charm could cleave even the soulless. He was a serial flirt, and John rued the fact that he couldn’t at least participate. The singer flirted with anyone and everyone he especially fancied. Anyone he wanted to either fuck or simply have tea with and get to know. Anyone, anyone. Over the years John had fantasized about being anyone else. Anyone but himself. 

He knew that Freddie had too much respect for him to flirt with intention—and John had desperately wanted that intention. In turn, he had too much respect for the singer to act on it as well. So for years they’d been caught in an awkward balance of demure, shy flirting and bloody mutual respect. And honestly, it had been painful for both of them.

Funny how all of that seemed to have disappeared so quickly. _Funny._

“Are you ready to go to the bakery, darling?” Freddie put an arm around him in a very luxurious manner with a sweet smile. His bracelets rang out as they collided into each other.

“No. I’m not ready.” John replied, totally deadpan.

Freddie scowled. “What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

A big smile spread across the bassist’s face. “I’m just kidding.” Freddie smacked his shoulder. “Yes, I’m ready. Give me a kiss first, please.”

“Absolutely not! My God, you are insufferable,” he lied, pressing a warm little kiss onto John’s lips. He attempted getting up to leave but John wasn’t having it just yet.

“Wait … please,” John asked earnestly. Freddie dropped the _leaving_ idea immediately.

“What is it, darling?” The loveseat creaked as Freddie adjusted, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Um. Err, I don’t know … nothing? I just want to kiss you a bit more. And apologize.”

Freddie found John’s hand and intertwined it with his own. “Apologize?” He furrowed his brow with immediate concern. “Honey … what for?”

“I said you smelled bad. And I kept teasing you.”

Freddie laughed. “Oh sweetheart. I knew you were just kidding!” His eyebrows lowered and knit together. “I mean ... I hoped you were just kidding.”

John bit his lip and smiled shyly. “I just want to make sure my humor is coming across, I don’t want to … hurt your feelings.”

“You haven’t! Have you forgotten John? We’ve always joked around like this.”

John could feel his cheeks turning pink. “Well, yes, but … we weren’t _kissing_ before either.”

“I don’t see how that changes anything, dear.”

“Freddie, please. Of course it does. I’d feel terrible if I hurt your feelings ...”

“B-,”

“Don’t even say it, you know what I mean.” John glanced at him in a way that pleaded he not be pedantic about this.

“Alright, yes.” He reluctantly conceded. “I suppose some things are … a bit different now. But please don’t change. You’re so much fun. And I love it when you’re mean to me.”

John cackled. _“Mean?”_ He scrunched his face with an exhaled laugh from his nose. “Do you?”

“Oh absolutely,” he widened his eyes with emphasis, giving it slightly deeper, curious implications. “But yes, please don’t worry and don’t change,” he squeezed John’s hand. “I like you for you. I like us for us. Do you understand, dear? You have nothing to apologize for, love.”

_Us._ That didn’t go unnoticed. John wasn’t sure how to reply so he just smiled shyly and pulled Freddie closer. “You’re sweet … Freddie.” he whispered.

“As pie. It’s one of my worst traits I’m afraid,” Freddie smiled.

“Mmm. I don’t think so, it’s one of my favorite things about you.” He caressed Freddie’s cheek then tugged a lock of his hair. “Come here, sit on my lap,” he purred into the singer’s ear. His velvety, posh tone made the hair on Freddie’s neck stand up.

Freddie did as asked, immediately; standing up and turning around to straddle him properly across his lap, his knees now sinking into the seat cushions behind John.

_Oh,_ how Freddie loved this, it was so luxurious being lavished upon and fussed over (and told what to do).

“So you like it when I’m _sweet_ to you?” He asks while settling upon him, wrapping his arms around John’s neck with a coy grin. 

“Yep.” John says matter of factly, mirroring the singer’s smirk.

Freddie laughs low, then leans in and begins softly sucking on and kissing his neck. Freddie’s feathery hair was tickling John’s jawline, just as his breath on his neck was pulling John into what felt like a spiral, a deep end, an entire ocean of willful surrenders. The mix of sensations was falling upon his psyche like a glittering night sky, and he wished to lie beneath it and observe it all for an eternity.

Freddie’s lithe ministrations drew him up the bassist’s neck, and soon he found himself gently biting the younger man’s earlobe. _“Liar,”_ he growled into John’s ear, and the word sent an immediate and potent lustful shiver straight through John, as if it were a silver shafted arrow. He exhaled, a soft groan escaping with his breath.

John attempts to hungrily kiss him in response, but Freddie pulls back slightly; stilling him with a firm lacquered finger against his eager lips. And Freddie looks at his lips, while biting his own. He lightly drags his finger down, parting John’s lips ever so slightly. It causes John to exhale sharply, and suddenly he’s breathing hard.

Freddie’s breath comes in short, staggered pants, softly but audibly. John brings a hand up, placing it on Freddie’s chest. He wanted to feel the rise and fall, and if he’s lucky, maybe a heartbeat fluttering beneath his fingertips.

Their eyes are locked, nothing really needed to be said. 

John gently wrapped his lips around Freddie’s finger. Freddie responded immediately with an involuntary whimper, encouraging John to take more in; so he did, he asked for more and Freddie provided it. He licked and sucked as the singer pressed further into his mouth, his eyes half lidded and hazed over. Soon, he was sucking on three fingers, and the way he was doing it left no question—he was treating his slick fingers as if they were Freddie’s cock. It didn’t need to be addressed, the impure look in his eyes was more than sufficient. John took Freddie’s hand and pushed his fingers in by his own volition. He was nearly deepthroating them, moaning around them. Freddie thought he might simply dissolve into primordial ooze. It felt too good, and yes, he received the message loud and clear. John maintained eye contact and it made him blush hard. It was filthy, and Freddie loved it. His cock throbbed and twitched in response.

John pulled off with a slippery suck and a breathy gulp. “You can’t just bring that up, you know.”

“Liar?” He smiled coyly. “And why not?” Freddie breathed out.

“You _know_ why.”

“Tell me.”

John sighed impatiently. “Do I have to _tell_ you, Freddie?”

The singer tilted his head and offered a toothy half-smile. “Would you rather _show_ me?”

A shudder ripped through John and he exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes. “Mmm.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

Freddie fussed with an uneven tuft of hair lying on John’s brow. “Fuck _ready,_ darling.” He exhaled, shutting his eyes. He met his gaze upon reopening. “I need you. I can’t deny it any longer.”

A beat of silence. Freddie pursed his lips a little nervously.

“Are you sure, Freddie? If you regret this it could be disastrous.”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.” And in his heart, he meant it.

John held his breath for a moment, then released it with a measured huff. “We … shouldn’t, right now. We should wait. We don’t even know where Roger went … he could be back any moment.”

Freddie made a sour face. He knew John was right. He exhaled, his posture crumpling in time with his released breath.

“Freddie,” he cupped his face in his hands and kissed his lips with a feather-soft touch. “Listen. I think it’s obvious how badly I want you … but, you’ve stopped me twice. I don’t think you’re ready.” He gently brushed Freddie’s cheekbone with the pad of a thumb. “This is important to me, you know?”

As much as it made his heart sing that John cared so much, he felt a pang of need so strong that it made him want to weep. Freddie couldn’t meet his eyes, he felt a little ashamed and reckless. He nodded, eyes glued to a wrinkle on John’s collar. “I … I know you’re right. I’m sorry, I feel a bit foolish.”

“Don’t feel that way … I understand. I think I do, at least.” He wrapped his arms around Freddie’s shoulders and pulled him in for an embrace.

They separated, and Freddie pulled his eyes back up to meet John’s. He pursed his lips, unsure what to say.

John smiled at him, then kissed his knuckles. “You can’t just drop a _Liar_ reference and expect either of us to remain … decent. Or _sane."_

It made Freddie smile, and blush. “I suppose that was a bit … much.”

John raised his eyebrows and pulled in a deep breath, mulling over that scenario and how it could’ve played out in his mind. “It was,” he narrowed his eyes. “I want _that_ .... I want it very badly.”

“Want what, exactly?”

“Errrm,” He gulped, then cleared his throat. Then giggled. He was biting his inner cheek and looking down at his hands, turning bright red of course. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t just say he wanted Freddie to take him in that tight black catsuit. He couldn’t _say_ that he wanted to slip it off of him and suck him off while Freddie recited lyrics from _that_ song. And he couldn’t possibly fathom mentioning how many times he’d jerked off thinking of it.

Freddie chuckled, it was apparent that John was really struggling with this. “That bad huh?”

John was looking into space somewhat, he widened his eyes. “You can’t possibly imagine, Freddie.”

Freddie let out a sharp laugh. “Oh _honey,_ I bet I very well can. Do you _really_ think you’re alone in feeling that way? About wanting … that?”

He shrugged. “Erm. Maybe?”

Freddie blinked. “My dear, are you saying that you never realized I choreographed _Liar_ in _that way, specifically_ to seduce you?” He made a point to emphasize and draw out every other word.

John found himself biting his lip. Their eyes were locked after Freddie’s rather nonchalant statement—this brushed off, matter-of-fact string of words, grand enough to sap all oxygen from the room.

John surged forward pulling Freddie’s face to his own, kissing him passionately and deeply. Freddie opened his mouth wider with a breathy, high pitched groan, accepting John’s full force eagerly. _“It worked,”_ the bassist hummed against Freddie’s lips between kisses. “Fucking _hell,_ Freddie.”

“You really _… unhh, shit …_ you really didn’t know?” he managed to enunciate, somehow.

John shook his head no, gripping Freddie’s hips and pushing his own up from below him. “No. If I had I never would’ve waited this long. I can’t stand this. I want you so fucking badly Freddie.”

_“John,”_ Freddie’s eyes rolled back as his body responded to the bassist’s rough grip and illicit grinding below him.

John’s lips are suddenly all over the singer’s throat again, one hand simultaneously slid beneath his shirt to caress his chest. He gripped Freddie’s ass with the other, grinding against him rhythmically, and Freddie reciprocated fully—he rubbed himself against John, panting. His hard shaft was shoved uncomfortably toward the leg of his pants. He moved, rubbing salaciously against John as if he were being fucked from below.

Freddie lifted his shirt and grasped the back of John’s head, pulling him to his exposed nipple. The bassist growled hungrily against his skin, sucking and licking around his deep pink areola. Freddie threw his head back and let out a deep moan as he felt John’s teeth sink into his delicate skin. The hardness of John’s thick cock throbbing impatiently against Freddie’s inner thigh felt like a reward to him and he wanted very badly to feel it in his hands, and in his mouth.

Ravenously, desperately, John’s lips found Freddie’s again and their bodies fell into a rhythm, pressed together. The space was filled with sounds of breath, wet kisses and a creaking loveseat.

“John … fuck, I _need_ you. I can’t. _I can’t ...”_ he whispered.

“You can’t what, Freddie?” John felt nearly delirious with lust, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. He felt lightheaded, actually.

“I don’t know … _please,”_ he panted. “I’ve accepted that this is inevitable. Delaying this is sheer torture. I’ve wanted you for so _fucking_ long.” His words sounded pained and exasperated.

John considered what he said, and though his head was possibly swimming with irresistible, judgment-clouding lust, it made sense. And it was more than definitely mutual. The other feeling he was experiencing was selfish greed. It made him feel guilty as sin that he kept granting these wishes to Freddie, despite the danger that the singer seemed so frightened of. The _what-ifs._ But _oh,_ that bittersweet longing.

Covetously, sinfully, John wanted something for _John_ for once. He swallowed hard.

If he thought for even a second that Freddie didn’t want him, he’d never. But the singer’s reasoning was sound. John felt exactly the same, yet he couldn’t understand Freddie’s hesitation. There’s no way he could understand—Freddie’s issues were rooted in a litany of relationships that had crumbled to dust and he didn’t want that. It had nothing to do with _want._ Freddie tried to explain that he was scared of fucking up and it had nothing to do with his physical attraction to John. And John did understand, on a surface level, but he also couldn’t completely. Because, to John, it was all a go and he couldn’t get enough.

“I want you too, Freddie,” his breath hitched and spilled out of him. Freddie had clasped his hands behind John’s neck and had begun kissing him deeply again, moaning into him. Their tongues licked hard into each other's mouths.

Somewhere between their lips an unspoken covenant was formed and the ecstasy was immeasurable. It truly felt like an awakening to John. Something in him clicked, and everything physical started feeling emotional and visceral. It felt hyper-realistic suddenly. The carnal physicality juxtaposed with bittersweet, soft emotion. What even was this? It was something foreign to John.

“Freddie … _fuck,_ I, ... I can’t be the one who initiates this.” He whined, feeling Freddie bite down hard on his bottom lip. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

He understood. “Can I?” Freddie whispered breathlessly. _“Can I touch you?”_

John blinked at him with half lidded eyes and shallow, panting breaths. He knit his eyebrows and nodded.

Then they heard the front door.

~ ~ ~

It was Roger. It was _always_ fucking Roger.

Freddie’s eyes went wide and he slithered off of John’s lap faster than a frightened cat. Freddie managed to scurry all the way to his room. Somehow he did it completely noiselessly.

John shut his eyes and let out a big sigh. He _knew_ this would happen. He’d hoped it wouldn’t, but they were idiots for even starting this in the living room. He got up, straightened his pants as best he could, and walked to Freddie’s room. He didn’t bother rushing.

He entered the room and closed the door behind him. Freddie was standing all the way on the other side of his room, next to the piano, with his hands over his mouth and the widest eyes John had ever seen. He couldn’t help but laugh.

John went to him and kissed his cheek softly with a giggle. “Let’s go to the bakery, love.” He took Freddie’s hand.

“How can you think of pastries right now, John!?” Freddie loud-whispered.

“Come on, you made yourself look so pretty for our date, we should go before it gets too late.”

“Is … is your boner gone?”

John chuckled. “It’s leaving.”

“I’m certain mine jumped into itself out of fear. I think I’ve got a vagina now.”

John laughed out loud. “I don’t think that’s how it works Fred.”

Freddie exhaled grandly, the adrenaline finally settling down. _“Shit._ Alright, darling. Let’s go get some fucking bread.”

~ ~ ~

The two finally made it out of the house without any complication from Roger. Matter of fact he’d simply waved at them wordlessly on their way out of the house. Granted he had his mouth full. Rather than talk, he grunted a pleasant goodbye trying to avoid a shower of crumbs, while still being affable.

It was a nice day—a little overcast and not too hot. Freddie had pinched a couple cigarettes from Roger on the way out, as it had been a while and he needed to de-stress after such a fright. _Well,_ that and everything else that had happened over the last couple days.

He found that smoking relaxed him. Perhaps it was _just_ a mental thing, but it did have a calming effect. And it kept his damned hands from fidgeting. He liked the social ritual of it, too.

“You know, darling, it’s probably a good thing we didn’t make a mess out there on the couch. I would've had to find another clean outfit. And imagine!” He scoffs, doubling over with sudden laughter. “Imagine if Roger had walked in on me with my hand in your pants!”

John turned red at the thought and let out a giggle. He didn’t want to imagine. Well, he didn’t want to imagine _all_ of it at least. “Freddie! Were you really going to do it out there? I was going to suggest going into a room!”

Freddie blinked. “I, …” he looked dumbfounded. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

“Oh my God.” John laughed heartily. “Freddie, you silly tart. You’re going to get us into so much trouble, you know.”

“Excuse me, I’m a silly _harlot._ There’s nothing tart-like about me dear.”

John guffawed. “You’re too much.”

They walked and chatted, it was pleasant. It was great to get out of the house and be together. And be _together,_ together. John really wanted to hold Freddie’s hand, but thought better of it. It already felt so natural now, he didn’t want to hide it. He wanted to scream about it. He felt like the luckiest person alive. But of course, he could be humble about it out of necessity. He had no choice. He was glowing either way.

The bakery was only about a kilometer away, so they arrived in no time. Freddie initially got two croissants, but thought better of it and ordered half a dozen more for the household. He’d also been enchanted by a basket of freshly baked baguettes and grabbed a few. Freddie encouraged John to pick out some sweets for their picnic, he eventually settled on chocolate truffles and two slices of tiramisu. They paid and thanked the clerk, wishing him a good day.

The small bell above the door rang and an older man came in … something about him rubbed John the wrong way. Sure enough, as Freddie passed the man on his way out, he turned to look at Freddie. On no uncertain terms, he was definitely staring at the singer’s backside. Thankfully, Freddie was unaware and had already started chatting to John, wondering where the best place to get a good slice of pizza around town could be.

John cleared his throat, snapping the man’s attention toward him. Freddie obliviously continued pondering out loud about his preferences for a perfect pizza crust, and the bassist never lost his place in their conversation despite this mildly infuriating distraction.

The man looked frightened, honestly. He didn’t expect to get caught—and sure, John’s throat clearing could be incidental … but when the guy looked at John he knew he’d been caught. The bassist narrowed his eyes, and slowly shook his head at the man while maintaining eye contact. The man was clearly shaken, he put his hands up in surrender as John passed, trying to avoid a potential physical confrontation.

Again, John was grateful Freddie didn’t know about this and he didn’t plan on mentioning it. As irritated as the silent exchange made him, the rush of possessiveness and ‘winning’ made him feel quite _macho._ And knowing that he’d protected his … _boyfriend?_ —he couldn’t be sure what to call this really—wrested a bit of pride from him.

Unfortunately, the negative effects of it stuck in his mind for some time despite the adrenaline rush. He worried he’d have to be dealing with this kind of thing a lot moving forward. Sure, he’d seen this countless times, but in the past he felt it was none of his business; he had the luxury of just looking the other way, but … he saw red this time. 

That was new, and it didn’t sit right with him.

John was glad that Freddie didn’t notice any change in his mood; he assumed it was obvious, he felt like a lighted coal. Freddie really was lost in thought, rapidly talking about every topic that crossed his mind, and he was exceedingly cheerful. He was looking forward to their fun date and his beaming smile and sparkling eyes left no mystery to his mood. It helped John forget his worries. Freddie’s enthusiasm was infectious in that way.

They were ‘home’ again before either of them knew it.

~ ~ ~

Brian had just returned from the camera shop when Freddie and John arrived.

“Oh hello dear!” Freddie said cheerfully. Brian was sitting on the couch in the living room, rifling through his newly printed photographs. He didn’t look pleased initially, but brightened up upon hearing Freddie’s voice. The singer went to the kitchen to sort out their goods and prepare for the picnic.

“Heeeeey Fred,” he lilted in a drawn out manner.

“How did your film turn out? Anything good?”

“Hmm.” Brian’s eyebrows furrowed and he cocked his head. “I’m not sure if the technician was incompetent or there was a smudge on the lens. Not all of them are bad but most are blurry.”

Freddie came out and stood behind the guitarist with his hands on his hips, glancing at the photos over his shoulder.

“Damn. May I see them?”

Brian handed him the stack with a nod. He opened another envelope of prints that he hadn’t looked through yet.

“What is this darling?” Freddie scowled at a blurry bit of brown and grey on a green backdrop.

“Hm?” Freddie lowered the photo so that he could see. “Oh, that was _supposed_ to be a rabbit, but it bounded off too quickly.”

Freddie gasped. “Look how cuuuuute this is!” Brian expected it to be a clearer picture of the bunny. “Brian, may I have this one? Pretty please?”

It was a photo of John, it was a bit blurry, but it was obvious he was giggling at something. “Uh … why do you want a picture of John?”

“And why wouldn’t I? It’s adorable.” He looked at the guitarist like he was just plain stupid. Freddie was serious, he really did think it was a dumb question.

“Yes, you can have it Freddie.” Brian chuckled.

“Thank you dear! Get some taste by the way. Our Deaky is precious.”

“Precious? John is the furthest thing from precious! Have you seen him when he g—”

“Oh my _GOD!”_ Freddie shrieked suddenly, cutting of Brian. Obviously turning a dead ear to his _bizarre_ and incorrect rhetoric. “This kitten! Is this the one you mentioned dear?”

Brian rubbed his ear dramatically as if he’d been deafened. “Yesss?” he replied, mildly annoyed.

“I’ll have to pack some lunch for him as well.” Freddie handed the stack of photos back to Brian and rose from the seat to continue preparing their picnic.

Brian nodded. “Oh! By the way, I found the things you listed, I put them in the fridge.”

“Thank you darling! I owe you one.” That was starting to become his own personal tagline.

“I couldn’t find a basket but I’m sure you can find something to use around the house.”

“That’s ok, yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

Honestly, as cute and romantic as the picnic idea sounded, Freddie wasn’t so focused on the food aspects of being alone with John again. He hurried off to his room for a minute to push the photo of John into the frame of his vanity mirror. He smiled at it, pleased with his work. Pleased that Brian let him have it. He somehow didn’t kiss it, though he kinda wanted to.

Freddie came back out to the living room and called for John. Brian was still sat in the loveseat looking through photos.

“Would you two like to go out to dinner tonight? I’m sure Roger will want to go, wherever he is.”

John nodded.

“Roger!” Freddie shouted, but got no reply.

“Can I pick?” Brian asked.

“Yes dear. Think of something _good._ John and I are going on our picnic now. If you see Roger ask him too. Please.”

“Won’t you guys be full after a picnic?” 

“It’s still early dear! But no, I don’t think our finger foods will fill us up.”

John snickered for some reason and covered his mouth, it sounded a bit like a snort. Perhaps he was thinking of how he’d made a snack of Freddie’s fingers earlier. He turned his head, letting his curtain of hair obscure his face so that Brian wouldn’t notice his shit-eating grin.

~ ~ ~

Finally. Everything was ready. Freddie had indeed found a makeshift basket. John couldn’t stop laughing at it. He’d used the case of an old acoustic guitar. Where the guitar was, nobody knew. He made sure to snugly wrap the contents inside with a big fluffy towel. The guitar case was nice and roomy, it also had room to pack a blanket for them to sit on. Or lay on.

Freddie was surprised he’d even remembered to pack food, for Christ’s sake. His mind was full of butterflies, romance, and filth. Pretty much everything but food. And honestly, the same could be said of John.

Brian had graciously allowed Freddie to borrow one of his Polaroid cameras for the occasion. Freddie didn’t want to be restricted by using film that had to be processed—he much preferred the instantaneous kind. It also allowed for the potential of scandalous photos. Nobody would have to process them at a lab, and he’d have no explaining to do. Perfect.

Freddie grabbed a jacket, just in case. He also carried the camera, and let John do the heavy lifting.

They found a spot, out beyond the fence. There was a big, full tree. Its branches fell so heavy and low that it even provided quite a bit of privacy. Freddie thought he might squeal, it really was perfect.

Finally settled, blanket situated and snacks laid out beautifully, they sat.

Freddie grabbed both sandwiches and offered one to John, who accepted graciously. He sank his teeth into the croissant, it was cooked to perfection. Flaky, buttery and soft, but with a slight crispiness to the layers. It complimented the cheese and ham beautifully.

John caught Freddie staring at him. The singer was chewing, and a big smile lit up his face. John laughed, it was cute. He was chewing too of course. It probably didn’t need to be said that they were rather speeding through their meal. Freddie winked at John with mischievous and glittering eyes. He really was happy today.

After lots of flirting, goofing around and damned _eating_ (albeit good tasting, especially the tiramisu), Freddie flopped onto the blanket and reached for the camera. He turned onto his back and pat the blanket beside him.

“Come here, dear. Let’s take some pictures together.” 

“I’m surprised Brian let you borrow that,” John laughed, lying down next to him.

Freddie held the camera aloft, and John laid his head on his shoulder to get in-frame. 

“Say _cheese,"_ they smiled and said cheese, then Freddie pressed the button. A white square popped out and onto his chest. John picked it up and flapped it back and forth waiting for the image to appear. Freddie impatiently stomped his feet into the blanket. “Blow on it John!”

John laughed. Somehow everything was a sexual innuendo.

Unfortunately the photo was blurry. “Shit.” Freddie pouted. “Let’s try again. Come close, darling.”

John wrapped an arm around him and pressed his head to Freddie’s. It triggered a very genuine smile from the singer. He held the shutter down a bit longer than before and hoped it’d focus better.

Again, the photo popped out and they waited impatiently. It was much better this time and Freddie screamed with delight. “John! Do you see this? Look how cute we are!”

John agreed and could only bite his lip really. “Umm. Can we take more?” He didn’t want to _say_ that he wanted some too.

“Of course, dear. I don’t care if we use up all of Brian’s film. This is important.” Freddie just sat there staring at the photo for a while with a big smile on his face. “Here, why don’t you try taking some?”

John took the camera from Freddie and held it above them. Just before the shutter clicked, John had turned and kissed Freddie’s cheek. It was unexpected, and it delighted the singer terribly. He could only smile as Freddie fake scolded him for being so sneaky. John waved the picture back and forth, feeling nothing short of completely chuffed as Freddie peppered his face with chaste little kisses.

“It’s perfect.” John smiled at the photo between his fingers.

“Oh my God,” Freddie took it from him and placed his other hand over his heart. “Oh this is too much. I can barely look.” Freddie was silent, totally engrossed in staring at the image. John gulped. He’d taken note of how beautiful his friend was, again.

“O-one more. Like that, please?” John wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed.

Freddie laughed, totally endeared by his charm. “I want a thousand more like that honestly, my love.” 

John felt that familiar warm rush of blood and knew he was blushing again. This time, it was Freddie who kissed him in the photo. He looked over his shoulder and met his gaze, camera still held aloft. And he dared, yes, to take a photo of them kissing.

John had to put the camera down. They didn’t even bother to see how (or if) it turned out. Freddie had draped his leg over John and they were kissing, quite recklessly; as if there were a barrier between them until now and they could finally, finally touch each other.

The combination of breeze and shade beneath the enormous tree actually had John feeling a bit cold, and Freddie’s warmth around him was welcome in more ways than one. Freddie maneuvered, straddling him. John already felt completely breathless, his chest heaving from anticipation and want. Feeling Freddie’s warmth and weight on top of him made him feel grounded and alive. 

Freddie’s hands went under his shirt and he pushed it up, his mouth going straight for John’s nipples. His skin prickled, both from shivering and from the overwhelming sensation of Freddie’s lips leaving wet marks on his chest. The cool breeze hit his wet skin and he trembled delightfully, feeling his areolas harden further.

Their hands found one another and they clasped. Freddie smiled against his skin.

This whole scenario already played out like a sweet, nostalgic vignette in Freddie’s mind. He knew he’d be fondly remembering this for the rest of his life. He was already drawing parallels to romantic art. It felt to him like they were in a Maxfield Parrish painting—one with nymph-like half nude men, flirting and kissing under a vast poly-chromatic sky.

“Waiting to touch you has been an exquisite torture, darling.” Freddie breathed between sucks and bites. _“Fuck,_ you’re so beautiful.”

John responded with a groan, then a sudden gasp as Freddie ground down against him. He rolled his eyes back with a shaky exhale feeling their clothed erections rubbing against each other. Freddie really was not wasting any time. Too much had already been wasted, as far as he was concerned.

_"Freddie,”_ he groaned. The singer tugged John’s t-shirt off, then pulled his own shirt over his head to feel the naked warmth of their bodies pressed together. John quietly marveled at how beautiful he looked shirtless and on top of him, then pulled Freddie to his lips and kissed him deeply, moaning into his mouth. He couldn’t ever get enough of kissing his beautiful mouth. He didn’t ever want to get enough. He grasped Freddie’s hips and gyrated against him from below, causing Freddie to whine deliciously.

The singer thought he might pass out, their passion was overwhelmingly exquisite. The stuff of masturbation fantasies, no question. “Oh, _fuck,”_ he breathed out as John moved below him, grinding his trapped cock against Freddie’s ass. Just the tactile feeling of John’s excitement pressed against him sent sparks spilling throughout his body.

“John,” he whispered, eyes tightly closed. Freddie was taking it all in, moving in time with John’s thrusts. He knew they were on the precipice of … _something._ “John, is this … is this still okay? Can I-,”

“Please … please touch me Freddie,” he whimpered into his ear, the desperation in his voice completely transparent. Both of John’s hands were buried in Freddie’s hair and he’d pulled him close. “I need you. Touch me.”

Freddie shuddered. He couldn’t count the amount of times he’d fantasized hearing those words if he’d tried. John’s lips were wet and reddened, his breathing fast and heavy. His eyes fluttered, he looked simply exquisite, with just a hint of coquettishness. To Freddie it was unbelievable. He couldn’t reconcile how stunningly gorgeous he was. He wanted to ravage him, and he wanted it to be beautiful. He wanted to take him right there, and he wanted it to be over-the-top romantic.

He kissed John softly, then laid down beside him. They laid there, staring into each other's eyes with shaky and stuttered breaths. Freddie lowered his hand, timidly reaching for, then touching John’s shaft from outside his pants with more a confident resolve. Both of them pulled in a breath at the sensation.

“Oh, _God,”_ John exhaled. 

And Freddie agreed with that statement. He swallowed, silently. He couldn’t believe he was rubbing John’s cock. It was so warm and hard, it made him feel desperate and he wanted to see it. He wanted to taste it. It all made him feel so greedy.

Freddie slipped just a bit of his fingers into John’s waistband and kissed his neck with a hum. John responded in the positive, groaning, putting a hand in Freddie’s hair and urging him on. 

He pushed his hand in further, slipping his fingers through John’s surprisingly soft pubic hair. Freddie groaned while licking at his throat, and John curved himself toward him, buckling, causing his cock to brush up against the singer’s hand.

Freddie’s eyes snapped open, realizing that John hadn’t worn underwear. He shuddered at the implications, then smiled remembering that he’d second-guessed doing that himself. He’d assumed it’d be too much; too _slutty,_ for lack of a better word. Realizing that John was riding the same lewd wavelengths as himself furthered his arousal, it made his cock throb.

“Mmm,” he growled into John’s ear. “You’re just full of surprises aren’t you?” With a twist of his wrist he gripped John’s cock, and he was rewarded with a series of panting breaths and whines spilling from the bassist’s beautiful lips.

John had muttered something but it was a rather incoherent jumble of words, but his point was understood. He slowly pumped himself into Freddie’s hand, he felt like he was on fire. Freddie’s firm, yet yielding grasp was a dream. It almost felt like he was slipping out of reality, so clouded over with lust and emotion.

“Freddie … Freddie, oh _God, .._ ah,” he whined.

“What is it sweetheart?” He punctuated his words with a particularly firm caress, circling his thumb over the slit of John’s already leaking cock. To say that Freddie was quite pleased with how slippery it was would be an understatement. There was so much that it audible when Freddie smeared it down and around his shaft. He’d hardly been touched and John’s thick cock had already spilled a very telling amount of pre-cum.

John gasped, feeling his eyelids fall shut, his body bowed and shuddered toward the singer involuntarily. He worried he’d finish too quickly if Freddie continued like this. Luckily, Freddie knew the signs and gently let off. He pulled his hand out of John’s pants and proceeded to lick his palm, and he made sure to do it right next to John’s mouth. He moaned, sucking his fingers clean. The lewd sucking sounds alone had the bassist wanting to bite his own knuckles from the sheer and overwhelming eroticism.

“Darling … you taste better than I could’ve imagined,” he whispered, then kissed him deeply, and John could taste himself on the singer’s lips and tongue. The act sent a jolt of lust through John so intense that it took his breath away. 

_“Fuck,_ ” he ground his teeth. “God Freddie ... you’re so fucking hot,” he panted shakily. “Can I .. can I touch you?” His eyebrows were knit, his breathing erratic. “I want to feel you.”

Freddie nodded, releasing a ragged breath and looking into his eyes. He pulled John’s mouth to his own and moaned into him with desperate positive affirmation. Their lips slid together as if they were built to do just so.

“Freddie,” he swallowed. “Can I take your pants off?”

Again, the singer nodded enthusiastically, his expression lustful and needy. _“Please,”_ he whispered.

John bit Freddie’s lip softly, eliciting a delicious sound from the singer. “ _Freddie_ , I want you,” he breathed, nipping at his lip again, then licking into his mouth with what could only be described as an erotic and lush groan. Their tongues slipped against each other intensely as John slid his palm down the front plane of Freddie’s torso and reached the waistband of his pants. The singer gasped, realizing that this was the first time John would actually be touching him directly. He nearly stopped breathing, the tension was consummate. Ineffable.

With a deft movement of his wrist, John pulled at and unbuttoned Freddie’s pants. He tugged slowly at the zipper, letting Freddie take it all in. The singer’s breath stuttered against John’s lips as he felt his hand slip under the elastic band of his briefs. When he wrapped his palm around Freddie’s cock, the singer threw his head back with a low moan and a tacit relinquishment of any semblance of control.

“Oh my _God,”_ hissed John as he latched his lips to Freddie’s exposed throat, licking and kissing in time with his movements. “Freddie … it’s so big,” and Freddie couldn’t reply with anything discernible as a cohesive thought.

Freddie felt as if he was pleasantly drugged, this was everything. Absolutely everything. He marveled indulgently at how John’s long, pretty fingers felt so _correct_ around his shaft. He knew how to touch Freddie as if it was the most natural thing ever, his nuanced touch felt almost instinctive. Before Freddie could praise him, John was already moving. 

Down. 

Down, down down. 

Freddie watched it unfold, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as John kissed him and went ever lower. From his collarbone to his chest, to his hip bone. A litany of kisses and licks left Freddie feeling exalted beneath him. John’s warmth overcame him. He’d spent a lot of time caressing his cock while licking just below his belly button. It was clear that John was getting just as much out of this as he was. Freddie thought he’d simply float off. This was decadent.

Then John drew his eyes to meet Freddie’s, “I want to taste you,” he said. Or at least that’s what Freddie was pretty sure he heard, and then he did taste the familiar metallic taste of blood in his mouth from biting his fucking lip too hard. He winced, letting off of his lip, audibly swallowing back a gasp. John looked debauched already, truth be told. His hair was fluffy, lips slick and reddened, eyes half-lidded and full of wanton lust. Freddie just blinked, it didn’t seem real—it was too beautiful. The breeze licked at his wet parts and he shivered, both from temperature and ecstasy. 

John pumped at Freddie’s cock slowly, then licked his hand and continued, his gaze firmly meeting Freddie’s. The singer was a mess already. Freddie writhed, John’s calloused fingers not letting up. He’d made sure to continually bump the underside of the head of his cock on each upstroke and it made him wild. The stimulation was intense, but so good—Freddie couldn’t help but to rut into John’s palm. 

John lowered his head and fanned his hot breath across Freddie’s slick shaft and the sensation threatened the singer’s sanity. John then let go of him and began tugging his pants off. Freddie lifted his ass, freeing his pants, and John was able to slip them off without any trouble.

Freddie quivered, now realizing he was completely nude (save his silver adornments) and soon to be on the receiving end of a blowjob from the object of his desire and owner of his heart. _Outside._ On a beautiful, breezy day. He knew he’d be writing a song about this later so it’d be memorialized for eternity.

John pulled off his own pants too, while pants pulling was the current event. He didn’t want Freddie to be naked alone; besides, he wanted to feel his warmth fully. He felt a bit shy and had to resist the urge to cover himself, but who wouldn’t in this situation? Freddie felt his breath falter and get caught in his chest at the sight of John nude and fully erect, he summoned him close. 

“Come here dear,” he motioned with a finger.

John laid down and Freddie gathered him close in his arms just to feel their bodies touch—for once with nothing at all between them. John couldn’t help but smile, wrapping his arms around him. They spent a good bit of time simply kissing tenderly and exploring each other’s bodies with their hands. They were enjoying all of it and soaking up as much of this experience as they could. Etching it into their minds.

To Freddie, it felt like something he didn’t want to admit to yet. Lust couldn’t hold a candle to how this felt and his endorphin-laced emotions were roaring through his mind. He desperately tried to keep them from spilling from his throat.

“Freddie,” John smiled against his lips.

“Are you getting impatient dear?” Freddie chuckled, then tickled him, and John yipped. Luckily Freddie wasn’t serious about his tickling venture and he stopped after a minute.

Once John’s composure returned, he laid on Freddie’s chest and crossed his arms, gazing at him. “I … you … well. I didn’t get an answer.”

“About what, darling?” Freddie propped himself up on his elbows to look at him better.

John was tracing a circle in Freddie’s chest hair. “Ermm. Uh …” he was turning red and it made the singer laugh.

“John, honey. We’re already naked, what on earth could you be embarrassed about?”

“Um, well ... you know.” He covered his face with his palms, and a sudden breeze caused some of his hair to blow across his hands. Freddie didn’t think he could possibly be more endeared to him, but here he was.

“Sweetheart, just say it.”

John still hesitated, his face was scrunched and covered by his palms.

Freddie sighed and giggled. “Yes dear, you can give me a blowjob. That’s what this is, right?”

“Damn it Freddie ... yes. Why would you torture me like that?”

“Because you’re so fucking cute John. Why do you think?”

John just giggled, still perched on his chest adorably. “Oh ... stop it.”

“And what will you do if I don’t, blow me? Make me cum? I don’t know how I’ll cope.”

“Oh my God! Shut up Freddie!” John was blushing and laughing, shaking his own body and Freddie’s below him from the giggling. “You’re terrible.”

Freddie flashed a wide grin. “And you love it. Come back up here and kiss me sweetheart.”

John shimmied up his chest and met his lips. Freddie ran his fingers through his scalp and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss with increasing intensity. _“Honey,”_ Freddie whispers, “What I meant to say was please. I lost my manners … please do it.”

“I’ve never done it Freddie,” John swallowed, breathing heavily. He was nervous he’d mess up. He resumed kissing him passionately, dropping his hand to palm at his hardness once again. Freddie moaned into his mouth and kissed him hard in response.

“I didn’t expect that you had, dear.” He said, breathlessly. “Please don’t worry, it’s just me after all.” He smiled, “I’m sure you’ll do great, darling.”

John smiled and kissed him one last time, then lowered himself.

“Spread your legs for me.” Freddie’s eyes widened, John’s words made the hair stand up on his skin. He did as asked and felt the bassist settle between his legs. He could barely bring himself to look, but he did.

John spat on his hand and caressed his cock, holding it at the base with one hand and pumping at it with the other. After a few strokes, he leaned close, pressing his tongue against his cock and licked the underside, dragging his tongue up its length slowly. He looked Freddie in the eyes, then closed his mouth around the head and began to suck softly. Freddie’s head dropped back, he thought he might pass out at the sight of it. Freddie shivered and his mouth hung open.

John lowered himself, taking in more of Freddie’s length, and soon found himself in a rhythm. Freddie gasped and writhed below him as he slid his mouth around his cock, bobbing slowly. He briefly pulled off to catch his breath then continued, taking in even more this time. The singer really couldn’t believe how good he was for never having done this before.

Freddie ran his hands through John’s scalp and pushed himself deeper into John’s throat. John moaned around him and the vibrations from it caused Freddie to shudder. _“Fuck_ … oh God ... John,” Freddie hissed. His vocal praise encouraged John, and in turn he sucked louder (and messier). His increasing pace and the depth he was managing caused him to drool, and this whole thing was becoming quite _wet._ Viscous saliva and pre-cum dripped from his chin as he sucked on Freddie’s cock, he didn’t give a shit. He was loving this, and clearly Freddie was too.

Freddie lowered a hand, interlacing it with John’s. He gripped his hand tight, and John could feel that he was shaking.

John pulled of off him and coaxed his legs down, then straddled him and sat. His own dick was wet from a thick bead of pre-cum sliding down its side. Freddie felt it slip against his stomach and he wrapped his hand around it as John lowered himself to kiss him hungrily. John hummed in response, finally feeling some exquisite friction around his hard, blushing erection. He rubbed it into Freddie’s hand while kissing him, a deep warm sensation already building up and pooling in his stomach.

Freddie moaned as he felt his cock slide up between John’s ass cheeks, and it didn’t go unnoticed. John maneuvered himself so that both of their erections were pinned between them.

“Freddie,” John rolled his eyes shut with a shudder as he felt Freddie grab his hips, digging his nails in. “I’m … really close.”

“Mmm,” Freddie moaned, “I am too, darling. What do you want?” Freddie’s eyes were glazed over, dark with need. He pulled John close and sucked his earlobe, then bit it gently. _“Tell me.”_

John groaned in response and pressed his eyes shut. “I want … I want to make you cum. I want to see it.”

Freddie pulled in a shaky breath, “Make me cum,” His words sent a shiver through John that instantly made his hair stand up. Freddie pushed John’s hair behind his ear, whispering “I’ll give you as much as you want.” John exhaled with a low growl, kissing him wetly and recklessly, their teeth knocked together, their lips rendered raw from so much kissing and sucking. Neither of them could be bothered of course, they’d been wanting this virtually forever.

John pushed himself away from Freddie’s mouth with a last nip at his bottom lip, then shifted his weight to his knees. He rolled his hips, and their hardnesses slipped against each other. It was warm and wet between them. John’s cock was leaking plenty enough pre-cum for both of them, he was sure—but he still spat on his hand and enveloped Freddie’s cock, making it slippery, then his own to do the same.

Then Freddie felt him adjust again, and he realized that John was sitting in a way that allowed him to jerk them off together using one hand. He’d put his weight on his other hand to balance himself, bent over Freddie. His hair tickling the singer’s chest as he moved above him. The singer swallowed hard, trying very diligently not to let himself go too quickly, seeing John like this nearly caused him to.

John’s jaw fell open as he watched what he was doing. His breath was coming in short, measured gasps. _“Fuck,”_ he breathed out, watching in a salacious haze, completely enchanted as the slit of Freddie’s cock offered forth a heavy string of pre-cum. It leaked onto his stomach and it was too much. John couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Cum for me Freddie,” he growled, loosening his grasp to allow for more speed with his jerking. 

Freddie was panting, his brows furrowed. “Oh my God, _John,”_ he gasped, thrusting his hips to meet John’s rhythm. The unbelievable feeling of his cock slippery and warm against John’s was the end of him. “Ah ... _ah,_ shit,” Freddie whined through his teeth.

“Let go,” he urged, and he twisted his wrist so that the backside of Freddie’s shaft rubbed against his calloused fingers just _so._

“Fuck, _fuck, shit …_ John, _oh God_ ,” he hissed out, ending in a high whine.

_“Yes,_ cum for me Freddie,” and seconds later his cock flared and white seed began to spill from him. The warm liquid covered John’s fingers and seeing it, _feeling it,_ was so intense that John temporarily forgot how to breathe.

_“John,_ oh, fuck, I’m cumming,” Long strings of cum spattered onto Freddie’s stomach and John felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. 

He realized he was effectively using Freddie's cum as lubrication now, and triggered it; that was as long as he could hold out.

“Oh _God, … Freddie, shit.”_ He cursed as his release ripped through and overtook him. He trembled and bit his lip, jerking roughly as he watched his cum spurt voluminously onto Freddie’s stomach and chest in thick white lines. Freddie’s cock was still throbbing, pumping his own release onto his stomach. The excessive slippery wetness from the cum on his fingers made the jerking louder, and this orgasm was the most intense one he’d ever had. John threw his head back with a loud moan and kept stroking, riding it out until he felt empty.

Freddie was gobsmacked. Breathless and full of awe. He’d honestly never seen something so conversely lewd and beautiful. John panted, hovering above him breathlessly and covered in sweat.

John honestly wasn’t sure why but he felt himself fighting back tears of all things. He wasn’t expecting emotions to creep in. He blinked back the tears with a smile. He forced himself not to recount in his mind the amount of times he’d wished for this, and every instance of longing ultimately ended in frustration. Or at worst, tears. It was more than he cared to remember. If he had to put words on it, he simply felt grateful. He could sing if asked; and for him, that was saying a lot. He swallowed back the emotion for now, and found himself blushing again as Freddie gazed at him with eyes full of all the love in the world.

Freddie raised a finger, signaling to John to wait a second as he reached for that soft towel (a strategic item), and wiped himself off so that John could lay against him without a sticky mess spreading between them. He handed it to John so he could wipe his hands and such as well.

“Come here, dear.” He patted his chest and John relaxed into him. They were both totally out of breath and high on post-coital bliss. A warm, pleasant weariness washed over them.

Freddie ran his hands through John’s hair soothingly as their heartbeats and adrenaline levels returned to normal.

Once John was able to find words again, he found that he actually couldn’t. So he just smiled at Freddie, and Freddie smiled back at him fondly. Then he rolled off of him so that he could hug him better from the side. They embraced, and settled into one another. In reality, John was curled up against Freddie and it was the most precious thing he thought he’d ever seen.

To Freddie, it felt like a fever dream, and even good dreams demand some sleeping. He decided to let it take him, if it must.

After just a short while—it had to have been mere minutes—Freddie could tell that the younger man had already dozed off. His breathing was low and his exhales louder than usual. He pressed a gentle kiss into his hair and continued to stroke it.

And now, as the beautiful warm breeze wafted through the branches of the tree cradling and hiding them, the unexpected emotions struck Freddie. He swallowed hard and pressed his eyes shut, and he could feel the saline biting at the edges of his eyelids. With an exhale, he opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. A single tear broke free and fell, despite his best efforts. 

He had to say it, regardless of whether it was heard or not.

“I’m falling in love with you, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this turned into 11k words (basically double what I normally write), I'm not sure how that happened but I hope you liked it :)
> 
> I probably won't get time to write until after the holidays, but we'll see. I will definitely try. Oh! And gratitude to my sweet friends Aubree, Pru, Nadia, Angelina and Vera ♥ If it weren't for your support I don't think I'd bother writing at all.


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